Gotham Has No Heroes
by it-was-important
Summary: Jerome Valeska well remembers these words to Bruce Wayne. When Jerome escapes from being sent to Arkham, he pays a certain billionaire a visit to prove once and for all that Gotham has no heroes. How will he do that? The best way he knows how: breaking the Wayne boy's hope.
1. It's Been Too Long

Bruce Wayne watched the sun rise over the trees and sighed softly. It had been a long night for the young billionaire, who had narrowly escaped death at the hands of the psychotic ring leader, Jerome Valeska. He had went home, content in knowing that the psychopath had been apprehended, only to get a call from Detective Gordon that he had escaped again. Naturally, Alfred was in lock-down mode.

He hadn't been able to sleep when he got home. Instead, he helped Alfred pick up the mess Jerome's cult had left behind. Together, they picked up all the pieces of the owl statue that Jerome had shattered. It was now stored away. Together, they had picked up the pieces of Wayne Manor and put it all back together like a puzzle. The house was mostly clean again. Some furniture was unrepairable and had to be thrown out. It didn't bother Bruce very much. It was just furniture.

Alfred had told him to go rest, but Bruce had been unable to sleep much. He had lied awake in bed thinking of what Jerome had said. _The point is that all these people out here, looting, robbing, killing, they're the people who wash your car, who pour your coffee, who take out your trash. And what happened the moment the lights went out? They showed their true faces. They showed how quickly they want to open up your rich boy veins and bathe in your blue blood!_ He could hear Jerome's raspy voice, close to his face and threatening as ever. _Face it, kid. Gotham has no heroes._

The memory had certainly made it impossible to sleep. It became even more impossible when the call that Valeska had escaped came. Bruce now sat in his father's study, watching the sun rise with a tired expression. He absently scratched at his arm which Alfred had bandaged from Jerome's stapling.

He squinted at the morning light and released a soft sigh. He shook his head. It was no use to worry about it now. Jerome Valeska would be captured again soon enough. There was no need to worry.

Bruce groaned in frustration. He was exhausted. He walked over to the couch and plopped down on it, laying on his back and holding a pillow to his chest. He rubbed his head. Alfred had gone to make sure the house was secure. Surely, he should try to rest. It would only be for a minute or two. He just needed to close his eyes.

The young billionaire shut his eyes and rubbed his temple. His entire body felt heavy. He tried to push out the sounds of the carnival. He tried to push out the cries of the people being tortured by Jerome's demented games. He tried to push out the shriek as the man fell into the tank of piranhas. He tried to push out Jerome's laughter.

Bruce felt his body become too heavy for his mind to hold. He passed forth into oblivion, where there was only darkness.

* * *

When he came to, it was because someone was shaking him lightly. Bruce squinted his eyes shut. "Alfred?" he mumbled softly. "What is it? Is something wrong?" There was no answer, mere shaking. His arm was being squeezed, and Bruce became alarmed. Was something wrong? "Did Detective Gordon call? Has-" Bruce opened his eyes and froze. It was not the butler who was looking down at him, but Jerome Valeska, grinning like a madman.

"Your butler's taking a nap," the ginger said conversationally. Jerome had apparently gotten ahold of his face, because it had been stapled back into place. "As for the detective," he added, standing up straight and looking at the odd group of goons watching their prophet in amusement, "Well, I haven't heard from him."

Bruce was frozen in time for a moment, and then he came to and suddenly, instincts kicked in. He brought his leg up and kicked the older boy hard in the chest. It sent Jerome stumbling backwards with loud laughter. Bruce was up in a moment. Concerned to find his guardian, he dashed for the door. Jerome gestured at him and two of the strange cultists lunged forward, grabbing hold of Bruce by either arm. "No! Let go of me!"

"Kids these days," Jerome grunted, clambering to his feet. He looked at the other men and women standing and awaiting orders and shook his head. "There is no respect in today's youth."

"You are not going to get away with this," Bruce hissed, thrashing in the arms of the two men. "You're going to get caught, and then you're going to spend the rest of your life in Arkham."

Jerome spun to look at Bruce and narrowed his sight on the young billionaire. "You think so, Brucie?" he asked, walking over slowly. As Jerome took the first step forward, Bruce began to struggle harder. Jerome paused and smiled in a demented manner. "Aw. Look. I left an impression."

"Where's Alfred?" Bruce snapped, pulling at his arms.

The red haired psychopath rolled his eyes. "He's fine. He'll probably wake up with a major headache," Jerome shrugged, "but he's fine. And he'll remain that way, as long as you behave yourself."

Bruce slowly stopped struggling at those words and stared at the resurrected lunatic with furrowed brows, unable to mask his confusion. Jerome smiled gleefully. He did so enjoy that look Bruce made. It was quite a hoot. "What are you talking about?" Bruce asked slowly. "You're here to kill me, aren't you?"

Jerome looked off and gave a little shrug, tilting his head back and forth in a manner that was both shaking his head and nodding it at the same time. "Well, initially, yes," he admitted, and admired the way Bruce immediately tensed up. "On the drive here, though, I started thinking." He pointed his finger at his head and spun it around as if to signal the cogs turning in his mind. "I started thinking about that conversation you and I had about Gotham having no heroes-"

"And you were wrong," Bruce said pointedly.

Jerome pointed at him. "Don't interrupt me," he said immediately.

Bruce's mouth snapped shut.

"And I thought about how you rushed right in to fight me. Some would even say that was admirable." He sighed dramatically and clasped his hands together. "If you ask me, you looked like a complete ass." He dropped his hands and took another long step forward. Bruce winced and tried to move backwards. Jerome reveled in the boy's fear. "But what you looked like is beside the point," Jerome said finally. His hands moved as he spoke. He was very theatrical, Bruce noted. He really would have been quite the showman if he hadn't been such a lunatic.

"Then what is the point?" Bruce asked haughtily.

Jerome gave him a dangerous look and took out a pocket knife. He pointed it at the boy. "Hush," he said in a warning tone.

The young billionaire glared daggers at Jerome and huffed. Jerome seemed to take some amusement in that, because he giggled happily. He suddenly skipped forward, causing Bruce to gasp softly and struggle to move back. He couldn't, of course, and Jerome was soon standing directly in front of him. Bruce froze and stared up at Jerome wide eyed, like a deer caught in headlights.

"The point, my little conquistador," he growled, "is that Gotham really doesn't have any heroes. The sooner you learn that, the better." He smiled. "And who better to teach you than yours truly?" He tilted his head and held out his arms wide as if presenting himself. Valeska's eyes gleamed with madness. It made Bruce shudder.

"You tried that already," Bruce whispered. He narrowed his eyes at Jerome. "It didn't work. I have faith in this city, and in the people in it."

"Exactly," Jerome rasped, nodding his head in agreement. "And that's what you and I are gonna fix."

Bruce gave him that confused look yet again and Jerome chuckled in his raspy voice. "Take him to the van, boys!" he ordered suddenly, and Bruce's eyes widened as the two men began to drag him away. "And you! Here." Jerome reached into a bag held by a tattooed man and tossed a can of spray paint to a woman with dyed red hair. "You know what to do."

The woman grinned widely and caught the different paints Jerome threw at her. She walked over to the wall and went to work spraying the large, menacing smiley face with HAHA's for a mouth. Jerome sighed dramatically and looked around happily as the two men began dragging the young boy out of the study.

"No! Let go of me! Hey!"

Bruce growled and kicked at the two men. One of them hissed in pain and hopped on one foot. "Damn it! You little brat!"

Jerome rolled his eyes and called over, "Brucie, what did I say about behaving yourself? Unless you want a certain hard headed butler to get his brains smashed all over the nice, shiny kitchen floor, I suggest you go outside with my boys there and get in the van." The last few words came out in an absolutely menacing growl. His eyes darkened at the boy and Bruce flinched slightly. He stopped kicking at the men. "There's a good boy. Off you go now."

The two cultists shot glares at Bruce as they yanked him out of the study. He was led down the familiar halls and out the front doors. A line of vans were waiting for them.

"Where are we going?" Bruce stuttered.

Neither answered, but both smiled widely and giggled.

Bruce found himself being thrown into the back of a van where two more cultists - a woman wielding a massive machete and a man sporting nun-chucks - were waiting to grab hold of him. Bruce winced as they shoved him in a seat.

He sat anxiously as he saw Jerome's goons filing out of the house. Jerome came out with them, looking incredibly cheerful for someone who had only been alive for less than a day. He practically skipped his way over to the van Bruce was sitting in and jumped into the back. He swung around, leaned forward towards the driver's seat as someone took that empty space and started the car. "You comfy back there, Bruce?" he called over his shoulder.

The younger boy didn't answer. He watched with widened eyes as the other vans filled with the cultists. One more climbed into their van and shut the doors behind her. "We're all set," she chimed.

"Excellent," Jerome said with a pleased expression. "In which case, let's get the hell outta here."

The proclaimed prophet stepped back and fell into the seat across from Bruce. He looked over at the young billionaire with a dark expression in his eyes. Bruce stared back, pursing his lips and refusing to show just how afraid he was. "Where are we going?" he asked.

Jerome Valeska smiled widely and leaned his head forward, looking out at Bruce in a demented manner. "Home," he replied.


	2. Welcome Home, Brucie

**Hello, everyone!**

 **First of all, to the two people who read and commented on the first chapter: Thank you both. You guys are literally the only reason this chapter got done today. I appreciate your words and your ideas. Thank you dearly.**

 **I forgot to add some notes and warnings to this in the first chapter. I intend to get darker with this fic. This fic will include torture, beatings, and mind games. It could _possibly_ involve some dark, manipulative Jerome x Bruce. Undecided. It's a possibility, though. **

**This story can also be found on Tumblr via prince-ofgotham.**

 **Please enjoy. xoxo**

Bruce did his best to avoid eye contact with everyone in the van. He stared at his knuckles instead. His knuckles were slightly cut from accidentally tearing along Jerome's staples when he was punching him. Alfred had made sure they had been disinfected and cleaned up. Now it was just an obvious sign that he had been in a fight with somebody.

Now and then, his eyes would flicker up and meet the demented gaze of the older boy across from him. Jerome was watching him like a hawk, an unreadable expression in his eyes. He hadn't stopped staring since he had sat down, and that annoyed and unnerved Bruce, who never liked being stared at. Bruce clenched his jaw and tried his best to ignore it.

They drove down the long driveway that would let them exit the Wayne family's estate, and Jerome seemed to gain a thoughtful expression. He hummed. "Y'know," he rasped, "I think something's missing. Don't you guys?" He looked around at his followers who were eyeing him curiously. He looked at Bruce and his eyes narrowed as he tried to think. Suddenly, it was like a lightbulb had went off in his head. "Oh! I know what it is!"

He snatched the sack that had once held the spray paint and turned it upside down, dumping the contents on the floor. Two more cans, a few knives, a gun, and a handful of darts fell out of the bag and onto the floor. Bruce's eyebrows furrowed and he watched curiously as Jerome shook it. "What are you- Hey!" Bruce yelped as Jerome threw the sack over his head, covering his face.

"It's not a proper kidnapping if I don't bag your head," Jerome reasoned, securing it over Bruce's face and then leaning back. "Can't have you seeing where we're going." Bruce growled from within the bag and reached up to remove it. Jerome reached out and swatted his hand away. "Ah ah ah! Don't touch."

Bruce made a small surprised noise and yanked his hand back with a huff. He balled his hand into a fist but made no move to swing.

Jerome saw this and watched with delight. "Just sit tight, Brucie." When the boy didn't relax in the slightest, he snickered.

The ride was long and annoying, as far as Bruce was concerned. He kept his head ducked, tried to ignore the feeling of eyes on him, and tried to keep his fists from trembling in anger. Breathing was difficult in the bag, and he found himself having to focus on his breaths.

Suddenly, after what felt like far too long a ride, the van screeched to a stop and everyone went still for a moment. Bruce heard the doors open and the van moved with the weight of people getting off it. Two hands reached out and grabbed his arms, hauling him up. "Up ya go," Jerome growled, and Bruce realized it was he who had pulled him up. Bruce immediately tensed as he felt himself being led forward in pushes and tugs.

Bruce stumbled and gave a groan. He couldn't see where he was going. Jerome wasn't exactly being gentle or taking care of the younger boy's steps, and Bruce scrambled blindly. He growled in frustration and reached up to take off the sack once more.

He felt a sharp smack to his hand and yelped softly. "Didn't I tell you not to touch?" Jerome asked, sounding amused. Bruce could feel him holding onto him from behind. His back was pressed against the older boy's chest.

"I can't see," Bruce growled in response.

"That's the point," Jerome replied. "Now, hold still."

One of Jerome's hands released Bruce's arms only to reappear snaking around Bruce's knees. Beneath the sack, the younger boy's eyes widened. "W-Wait. Wait, Jerome, don- Ah!" The young billionaire yelped as he was hefted up into the air. Jerome's arm looped around Bruce's chest, carrying him stomach down. Bruce groaned, feeling very much like a battering ram. "Put me down!" He could feel Jerome moving inside the van. "Jerome, put me down!"

"As you wish, Prince of Gotham," the older boy muttered in an almost annoyed tone.

Bruce felt himself being swung forward and back in the air. Suddenly, Jerome threw him forward. Bruce let out a cry as he was thrown face first out of the van, only to feel more hands grabbing and catching him. Jerome had thrown him to some of his followers. The ginger psychopath could be heard cackling behind him. Bruce groaned. "Tell them to put me down."

Jerome's cackling came to an abrupt halt. "You heard him, boys. Let him go."

The cultists gave little giggles and suddenly let Bruce go. The young billionaire hit the ground with a grunt. He scrambled on his stomach, trying to get back to his feet, when he heard Jerome jump from the van. Hands grabbed the back of his shirt and hauled him back up. "This way," Jerome instructed, and once more went to leading him forward.

Bruce struggled to keep up with Jerome's quick pace. He stumbled, and Jerome's tight grip on him caused him to stagger and struggle to walk. He couldn't see, but he knew it when they had walked inside of a building, and he knew it when Jerome pushed him in a different direction than the other cultists.

He felt Jerome reach in front of them and heard the loud screech of a door. They came into an area with an echo and Bruce thought it must have been a stairwell. He found he was right when Jerome said, "Going up!" and pushed him forward, giggling when Bruce stumbled and had to reach for the floor to keep himself from face planting.

The climb was a struggle within itself, and when they reached the top, Jerome pulled him through another door and down another hall, before finally entering a room. Bruce felt the boy shove him forward hard, and stumbled to the ground. He fell in a heap and gave a groan.

Bruce sat up just as he felt a hand grasp onto the top of the sack. Jerome yanked it off, and Bruce found the older boy crouched down in front of him with a wicked grin on his face. "There! Wasn't that fun?"

"Where are we?" Bruce hissed. The room was cold and barren. The window which was letting in the morning light was dusty and broken. The walls had once been painted a gray/blue color but were peeling and revealing their cement shade underneath. The floor was cement and felt like ice beneath Bruce's hands. It looked as if it had been abandoned for a very long time.

Jerome watched the boy with cruel amusement glittering in his eyes. "What, you don't like it?" Jerome asked, feigning hurt. "I know it ain't Wayne Manor, but really!"

"Stop it with the games," Bruce snapped. "I've had enough games."

"Sheesh. Remind me not to keep you out late again. You get cranky." Jerome giggled and stood up from the ground, brushing himself off. Bruce watched him with fury brimming in his eyes. Jerome tilted his head. "See?" He gestured to Bruce.

Bruce smacked the hand away and climbed to his feet. Jerome eyed him the entire time rather like a cat watching a mouse. For a moment, the two merely stood and stared at one another as if waiting for something. Neither moved. Bruce was tense, waiting for Jerome to attack like some animal. Jerome was motionless, his expression unreadable.

Bruce could hear dripping like from a leaky faucet from somewhere. He heard the distant sounds of people walking halls down below them. Now and then he heard a slamming door or a gunshot.

"Wow," Jerome finally said, sounding impressed, "You're real good at staring contests."

"Where are we?" Bruce growled.

Jerome rolled his eyes. He looked around with an agitated look and waved his hands around as he said in a dramatic voice, "Home!"

Bruce glared at him. "This _isn't_ home!" he snapped. "Tell me where we are, Jerome!"

The ginger maniac gave a sound of exasperation. "The outskirts of Gotham. That's all you need to know."

The young billionaire's eyes widened to the size of saucers, much to the delight of the criminal who gave a low, broken and drawn out laugh that made him sound like a smoker. Bruce dashed to the window and peered out. They were at some sort of old facility across the water. This building seemed to be the only one around. It was surrounded by tall, iron gates not unlike Arkham's, and it looked entirely abandoned save for the few vans parked below. Bruce felt his pulse rising. He felt his heart beginning to pound in his chest. He would've thought he was having a panic attack if he thought himself capable of such. As it was, his breathing became ragged.

Jerome snickered as he heard the quickened breaths. "Aw," he cooed, giving a fake pout. "What's the matter, Brucie?"

Bruce heard Jerome's laughter and felt goosebumps rise on his arms. It was the equivalent of nails on a chalkboard. It gave him a desperate desire to spin around and break the red haired boy's jaw, but he refrained as he remembered the house of mirrors. He would not lose control of himself.

"Why am I here?" he asked instead, his voice trembling.

Jerome scoffed. "We've been through this," he said slowly, as if speaking to a small child. "I remembered what we talked about on our little _date_ and decided that it would be for the best if we remedy those childish delusions-"

"It's a difference in opinion," Bruce said haughtily.

"It's a prison in your mind," Jerome replied.

"You can't change my beliefs," Bruce snapped. He gave a rather exasperated growl and ran his hand over his dark locks. "This city has good people in it. People to stop people like _you_." The words came out in a low growl and Bruce stepped forward suddenly, his earlier apprehensions thrown to the mind. He stood face to face with Jerome Valeska and narrowed his eyes. "You're wrong about Gotham."

Jerome narrowed his eyes in a serious way and then suddenly began to laugh again. "Oh, Brucie," he said, shaking his head, "You may have gotten taller but you're still the little kid I dragged up on stage at that benefit. Childish, naïve, kinda bratty." He shook his head and smiled a wide, demented smile. "It's going to be fun breaking that faith."

"You're going to fail. You're going to get caught. Alfred will go to the GCPD. Detective Gordon will find me. You'll be locked up in Arkham." Bruce smiled smugly. "You'll be dropped back in a cage like the rabid animal you are."

He wasn't expecting Jerome to hit him, so when the back of the ginger's hand connected sharply with Bruce's cheek, the boy yelped and fell to the floor. He looked up, eyes wide and mouth gaping, to see the psychopath looking over him with clenched teeth and wide, wild eyes. Jerome wasn't smiling as much as he was baring his teeth like a growling dog. "I'm not going back to Arkham," he said slowly.

Bruce winced, feeling a bruise appearing on his cheek. Jerome cleared his throat and shuffled his feet as if regaining his composure. He lifted his chin at Bruce. "Now, I'm going to go take care of a few things. I'll be back in a few minutes, and when I get back I expect a major attitude change." His words were feigning a stern tone, but Jerome's eyes were dark and filled with cruel intent. He spun on his heel and strode to the exit, slamming the door shut behind him.

Bruce flinched at the loud clash the door made.

* * *

"What do ya mean, he's gone?" Harvey Bullock stared in shock at a somewhat ruffled and bloody Alfred Pennyworth. The butler was leaned on a desk, holding a bag of ice to his head.

"Well, it's exactly what I said, isn't it?" Alfred snapped, "I was cleaning up the kitchen when Jerome Valeska and a few of his goons came in. One of them knocked me in the head a few times with a rolling pin. Valeska didn't even bother to stop and say hello, just walked right through the damned kitchen." He scowled. "When I came to, Bruce was gone. Only thing they left behind was that spray painted smile."

Harvey put his hands on his hips and cursed, turning and pacing around the room in frustration. Jim Gordon folded his arms. He didn't like the sound of this. How had Jerome gotten away so quickly? Why had he went straight back to Bruce? It was an almost obsessive move.

It was chilling, to say the least. And now they had to not only deal with Jerome's men loose on the city, but the fact that Jerome had once again taken Bruce Wayne. Was the boy even alive? How long did they have until Jerome decided to kill him? Surely, that was what the psychopath intended to do. It had been the end goal last time, so why should this time be any different?

"We have to find him," he muttered. "Alfred, was there anything else? Anything that might've given a hint as to where they were?"

"No," the butler responded bitterly, "Nothing but that damned face."

Jim closed his eyes. That was practically nothing to go on. "Okay," he said slowly. "We need to put out a search. Have everyone in a uniform looking for signs of either of them." He turned and left the office abruptly. Harvey cursed and followed after him.

"This'll be like finding a needle in a haystack," Harvey said, following after the brisk paced detective. "We need a better plan."

"We'll get one. For now, we need to start searching. Get them going, Harvey."

Harvey stopped for a moment and then sighed. He nodded and turned his attention to the officers at work at desks. "All right, listen up!" he began.


	3. Nice Try, But No

Bruce did not stay down for long once Jerome was gone. He climbed to his feet and searched the room shortly. It was mostly empty, save for an old looking cast iron bed that looked like it had been placed there recently and a sink attached to one wall. He glanced around quickly. There was nothing here to use to defend himself. He needed to get out of here.

He strode his way over to the door and opened it slowly. He peered outside. The hallway was open and empty, with various rooms on both sides of it. At one end, there was a wide window which, much like the one in his room, was dusty and broken. At the other end was a door to the stairwell.

Bruce stepped outside slowly. He looked around and when he heard no one on the floor, he ran towards the door. He needed to get out of here. He needed to get to a phone. He needed to call Alfred. He needed to get away from Jerome Valeska.

He had to get out of this building, first. Bruce dashed down the empty floor and reached the stairwell. He opened it slowly for the sake of being quiet, but the door creaked loudly anyway. He winced and slipped into the barren stairwell. There was at least two more floors up and three to go down. He took a deep breath and started down the stairs at a quick pace.

The stairs were thankfully just as empty as the floor Jerome had placed him in. He made it down to the first floor and peered out the dirty window in the door, searching for any cultists. When he saw none, he opened the door and winced again at the creaking sound. _Damn it_.

He made it halfway down the hall when he heard two people talking. Bruce paused at a doorframe and slowly peered inside. A middle aged woman and a teenaged boy were standing, each holding guns. Bruce held his breath and listened. "I wasn't expecting him to actually _keep_ the Wayne kid," the boy said.

"Neither was I," the woman admitted.

"You think he's thought this through?" The boy frowned and looked at her. He was around Bruce's age, wearing a white outfit covered in buckles and chains. He had his hair dyed blue and had gauges in his ears.

The woman, whose face was covered in clown makeup and was dark haired, scoffed. "It's Jerome. He knows what he's doing. Besides, let him do what he wants. He's been dead for a year. He's been alive for less than twenty four hours. If he wants a pet, let him have it."

Bruce didn't like the sound of that one bit. He bristled and slowly slipped past the doorway, on towards the exit.

When his eyes caught sight of the bright red exit sign, he silently cheered. Once he was out, he would make his way back into Gotham City. He would call Alfred. He would tell Detective Gordon where Jerome was hiding out. Jerome would be sent to Arkham.

He looked out, and when he saw no one, he jogged out. The iron gates were shut, but perhaps they were unlocked. If not, he would climb over or find a way around.

Excitement got the best of him. He found himself sprinting full speed at the gate. All he needed to do was get past the gate, and he was home free. He could go home. He could see Alfred again. It would all be okay.

He realized too late that there were footsteps behind him, sprinting after him. It was only when Jerome Valeska grabbed him from behind did he realize he had been caught.

Bruce screamed as Jerome looped his arms around him from behind and lifted him off his feet. He panicked and kicked at the air, screaming. Jerome let out a growl. "Oh, Brucie! What's the matter? Did I scare ya?"

"Let me go! Let go of me!" Bruce kicked his legs and tried to pull his arms free. "Somebody help!"

"Somebody help!" Jerome mocked, cackling. "Help, somebody!"

Bruce gave a cry and kicked at Jerome's legs. He thrashed furiously. Jerome chuckled and backed up, trying to drag Bruce with him. When the young billionaire refused to stop struggling, Jerome sighed in exasperation and hefted him up before tucking him under his arm and carrying him like a bag of potatoes. "Put me down! Let go!"

"Are all rich kids this demanding?" Jerome asked, stalking his way back towards the building and trying to ignore the thrashing boy under his arm.

Bruce kicked violently and made it practically impossible to be carried in his manner, and with a little growl of agitation, Jerome dropped him. Bruce hit the ground on his stomach and scrambled to stands, kicking up dust as he went. Jerome lunged at him. "Oh no ya don't!" the lunatic all but barked. Bruce elbowed him in the ribs and Jerome grunted, releasing him again.

That was all it took for the young billionaire to take off at a sprint towards the gate. All thoughts other than blind escape had left his mind. He just needed to get out of there. Jerome groaned lowly and stood up straight. He pulled out a gun and aimed, shooting at Bruce and missing on purpose. It caused the boy to yelp and duck low, stumbling in his panic. "One more step to that gate, and I'll shoot you, Bruce," he called. The boy resumed his run when he had caught his footing and Jerome sighed dramatically. "All right. Have it your way."

He aimed and fired, shooting the back of Bruce's calf.

Bruce let out a scream and his leg gave out under him. He fell again and winced, hissing in pain and clutching at his leg. Jerome lowered the gun and gave another low, short laugh that was both chilling and grating on the ears. He stuck the gun back in his pocket and began to skip his way over to the boy. Bruce laid on the ground, clutching at his leg and trying to keep his breathing normal.

Jerome walked over to him and looked down at the boy who was now bleeding and covered in mud from his multiple falls. Bruce's breaths were shaky and quick, and for a moment the red haired maniac thought that he was going to go into a panic attack. "I did warn ya," he pointed out.

Bruce gave a pained groan in reply. He had never been shot before. It hurt. God, it hurt. And Jerome was just standing over him, looking both amused and irritated at once.

The ginger gave a low cackle and reached down. "Now, if you're done with that little _display_ ," Jerome said, waving at Bruce with both hands as if indicating the entire scenario, "Let's get you back inside." He reached down and grabbed Bruce by the arm. The younger boy let out a short whine as Jerome hauled him up. He put weight on the newly injured leg and immediately regretted it, as his leg buckled again and he almost fell. Jerome caught him under the arms. He grunted when Bruce all but fell into him. "Okay," he muttered, "Maybe I didn't think this one through."

"You think?" Bruce growled, desperately wanting to elbow Jerome in the face.

The older boy tutted. "Such disrespect. I could just leave you out here for the wildlife to eat you, y'know?" The younger boy all but snarled and Jerome cackled. "Yeah, yeah, I know," he said, and then in a mocking tone he said, "'This is all your fault, Jerome. You shot me in the leg, Jerome. I want to go home, Jerome.' Did I miss anything?"

"You're an idiot, Jerome," Bruce replied dryly.

The psychopath let out a loud laugh and shook his head. "Nice to know you haven't lost your sense of humor, Brucie." He chuckled and bent down, lifting the boy over his shoulder and holding the backs of his knees. "Now, if you kick me, I'm going to stab your other leg. Got it?"

Bruce let out a small growl and hung onto the back of the older boy's shirt, disliking the feeling of dangling over his shoulder so limply. Jerome hefted him up and Bruce winced, feeling his leg bounce on Jerome's chest. The walk back inside was a miserable one for the young billionaire, who was in pain from his leg, trying not to panic because of the pain in his leg, and disheartened at the idea of not escaping. Jerome carried him back up the stairs, whistling as he went, and when they finally came back to the room Jerome had put him in the first time, the maniac walked over to the bed and dumped Bruce onto it.

The boy cringed and immediately reached out to grasp his leg. Jerome smacked his hand away. "Don't touch that," he said casually. Bruce looked up at him wide eyed as Jerome walked over to the door, still whistling, only pausing to say, "Stay there." He was gone for a few minutes, in which Bruce clutched at his leg and tried to ease the pain of it. When Jerome came back, he had a little white box with a red cross on it. He practically skipped over.

"Obviously, we can't take you to a hospital," Jerome said, looking at Bruce who was sat up and holding his leg. He put his hand on the boy's chest and gave a hard shove, sending him to lie on his back. Bruce grunted. "But, first aid kits work just as well."

He set the box down and reached out, grabbing at the boy's jeans. Bruce yelped and shoved at his hands. "What are you doing?" he asked, trying to push the older boy away.

Jerome stood up straight with an exasperated expression. "I have to see the damned hole to wrap it up, now don't I?" he snapped. Bruce gave him a frightened look and Jerome chuckled lowly. "Relax. What's that saying? If I see something I haven't seen before, I'll throw a dollar at it." He grabbed Bruce by the waistband of his jeans again and Bruce's hands twitched to push him away. Jerome shot a warning look at him and he hesitantly held his hands back while the older boy unceremoniously yanked his jeans down to his ankles and then off.

Bruce flinched, feeling the cold air touch his bare legs. He glanced down and his eyes widened at the oozing blood coming out of his leg. Jerome whistled as if in appreciation. "Okay!" he said, clapping his hands together. "First thing's first, we gotta get that bullet out."

He sat down and Bruce's eyes widened. "What?" he asked, paling slightly.

Jerome gave a "mhmm" in reply in an almost disinterested manner as he sat down and pulled Bruce's leg into his lap. "You may want to lay on your stomach. I can see better."

"Wait," Bruce stuttered, "Don't touch it."

He tried to pull his leg loose and Jerome chuckled, looking at him. "Don't be _dramatic_ ," he said, shaking his head. "Now come on. Lay down. Bite the damn pillow for all I care, just lay down." He reached out and gave Bruce's shoulder another light shove that sent him on his side. Bruce felt his heart beating rapidly again.

"Please, don't," he said, the words coming out small. He hated himself for it. "Don't touch it."

Jerome rolled his eyes in an exasperated manner and then looked up at Bruce pointedly. He could see the kid was fast on his way to throwing some sort of fit. Or worse, having a melt down. As amusing as that might have been, he didn't want to have to deal with it. "Look," he said, trying not to sound irritated, "It has to come out. You can't just keep it in there. So lie down on your stomach, that way I can get a better look and you can't just sit up and struggle with me. Put your head on that pillow. Go on."

Bruce gave a pleading look, and when Jerome didn't let go of his leg, he made a small noise of dread and slowly rolled over onto his stomach. He pulled the pillow lying at the head of the bed to him and slowly rested his chin on it. Jerome watched him with a little smirk, amused that he had gotten the Wayne kid to act this way just by a bullet to the leg. He then tucked Bruce's uninjured leg between his own two so Bruce couldn't kick him. He knew this was going to hurt.

Bruce felt his and his eyes widened a little. He squirmed meekly, but in his current state there was little he could do. That didn't stop him from trying, of course. Jerome glared at the smaller boy's back. "All right, new plan," he growled. "You can either lie still and let me get the damn bullet out, or I can call some _nurses_ in here to hold you down while I do it. Your choice."

The billionaire winced but stopped squirming.

"There's a good boy," he said with a chuckle. He turned his attention back to the bullet hole and looked at it with a cocked head. He smirked suddenly and dug his fingers into the wound.

Bruce let out a strangled yell which he quickly muffled into the pillow. The pain was disorienting. He could hear the sound of Jerome's fingers in his leg. It was the same disgusting, squelching sound as when Jerome had stabbed the man at the carnival just to use his blood. It was morbid.

It was incredibly painful, and the boy felt tears prick the edge of his eyes. He tried to thrash, but moving only made it worse. He cried out.

"Almost there," the older boy muttered, catching the bullet in his fingers. He could hear the Wayne kid letting out choked cries and muffled moans, and found it amused him more than anything else. He pulled the bullet free. "Gotcha!" He cackled, and felt Bruce collapse on the bed. Well, at least that made things easier.

Bruce heard the bullet drop to the floor with a clink. It came to him vaguely. He felt dizzy and nauseated. He shuddered. "Please, don't touch it again," he muttered, almost in a whimpering plea.

Jerome chuckled and opened the first aid kit. "Nice try," he replied. "Next we gotta clean it. Then we'll wrap it up." This caused Bruce to release a small whine that brought pure joy to Jerome's black heart. He hadn't realized just how much he liked causing the kid pain until last night. Making him scream was absolutely delectable.

Jerome took out a bottle of alcohol. He looked it over and shrugged before opening up the bottle and putting one arm down on Bruce's ankle to hold him down. He poured the alcohol over the hole in the boy's leg and Bruce immediately hissed and tried to kick him. Jerome laughed and held his leg down, watching in amusement as the boy bucked and kicked.

Bruce threw his arms back to try and reach Jerome. The alcohol was sizzling and burning in the wound, and Jerome was holding his legs down, making it impossible to get away. When he couldn't reach the older boy, he let out a cry and tried to roll on his side to break free.

Jerome grabbed him and flipped him on his stomach once more. "Ah ah! Stay still, Brucie!" he scolded, snickering when the boy gave a groan of frustration and pain. "Almost done."

The ginger haired boy continued to hold Bruce's legs down as he grabbed gauze wrapping. "Sit still. This has gotta be tight." He went to wrapping the wound, Bruce gasping and groaning all the while. When he was finally finished, he tied it tightly and then released Bruce, who yanked his legs back as if Jerome had personally wounded him - which, technically, he had.

Jerome brought his legs close to him and laid on his side once more. His forehead was drenched in sweat and he looked considerably paler. It was gratifying to the elder of the two, who was vaguely aware that he himself was covered in Bruce's blood, as was the bed and the floor.

For a moment, the two stared at one another wordlessly. The only sounds were the occasional banging of a door on the floors beneath them, the leaky faucet, and Bruce's shallow breaths. Jerome watched him like a hawk, and Bruce stared back like a cornered dog. Bruce was light headed and sick, but he refused to take his eyes off of Jerome for a moment. He refused to turn his back.

Jerome finally let out a low, throaty chuckle and tilted his head. "Ah, Brucie," he said, sighing dramatically, "We're going to have such fun together." He shook his head with a laugh and stood up. "Now, I don't think I have to tell you to stay here. If I do, well," he grinned, "You may lose a foot next time, Bruce." The dark gleam in Jerome's eyes shook Bruce to the core.

The maniac smiled cruelly and walked to the door. "I'll be back soon. I expect to find you in this room when I get back. Don't run off, now!" He cackled as he exited the door. It slammed behind him and left Bruce alone.

"As if I could go anywhere," the boy growled softly, dropping his head back and shutting his eyes tightly.


	4. Nightmare

**Fourth chapter done! Not much happening in this chapter. More of a filler, really. More to happen in the next. Selina's now on the look out, and Bruce... Bruce is trying his hardest. I'm very open to ideas, opinions, and feedback, so please, let me know what you think should happen, whether it be what's going on in the outside or Jerome's intentions for Bruce...**

 **As always, I do not own DC or their characters. I only own my mind, which is twisting the story in its own way. This story can also be found on Tumblr at prince-ofgotham.**

 **Enjoy!**

 **xoxo**

Selina Kyle did not like being annoyed by the GCPD. As far as she was concerned, Jim Gordon was a nuisance to her. The cops hadn't exactly spelled good news for her in the past. That explained the agitated look on her face as she sat in the empty loft of a rundown apartment complex, eyeing Detective Gordon like he was a wild dog.

Jim didn't look particularly threatening. Rather, he looked almost apologetic in that serious, stern way of his. Selina watched him with folded arms and a sour expression. "What do you want?" she asked blandly.

"Help," Jim replied easily. She scoffed at him and he frowned. "Just listen to what I have to say, all right? It's about Bruce."

That got her attention, but she didn't show it. She just continued looking at him as if he were a smudge on her boot. "What about him?" she asked in a rather sassy tone.

Jim set his jaw. "He's missing," he replied.

Now _that_ did get the girl's attention. She straightened just a little, and Jim hid the smugness he felt for it. Jim folded his arms over his chest and watched her closely. Selina was staring at him in that impatient, to-the-point way of hers. Her chin jutted up, her eyes boring holes into him, she looked like she wanted to sweep him off her porch. She looked at him like he was the street kid, and she was the adult living on her own and working for the GCPD.

"I'm listening," Selina said, gesturing for him to go on.

Jim nodded. "He was kidnapped. Jerome Valeska escaped from being sent to Arkham. Apparently, if what Alfred recollects is true, he showed up at Wayne Manor early this morning with a group of his followers. They broke in, knocked Alfred out, and took Bruce. He's not been seen since."

Selina Kyle was not a girl who enjoyed caring about many people. She certainly didn't act like she cared very much. She would be lying if she said she didn't care about Bruce Wayne's well being, though. He was one of her only real friends. He was one of the only people who had been truly kind. Sure, he was a little dorky and he knew nothing about the world. He had a good heart, though. He was a good person.

"What's this got to do with me?" she asked blandly, tilting her head to one side ever so slightly.

She could see the frustration in Jim Gordon's eyes. It was almost amusing. "I know you got contacts all around the city. You can't tell me you don't have fences, that sort of thing."

Selina scoffed. "You callin' me a thief?" she asked mockingly.

"Selina," Jim said warningly.

She smirked. "What do I get if I do ask around?" she asked, more seriously now, but still with the smug expression.

Jim rolled his eyes and gave a little grunt. This was why he hadn't brought Alfred with him. "How much?" he asked, dreading the answer.

Selina's eyes glittered as she said, "Seven hundred dollars." The look Jim gave her made her laugh outright.

"Two hundred," he growled in response.

"Five hundred."

"Deal."

Selina smirked and held out her hand. Jim growled. "You get the money when you get the information. You know where to find me. Now, I have to get going. Good luck."

He spun on his heel and made for the door. Selina waited until he was there before she called, "Hey! Gordon." Jim paused and turned to look at her questioningly. Selina hesitated, unsure if she should say anything at all, but finally she said, "Let me know if you hear anything before then."

Jim gave her that serious look and nodded his head. "I will," he replied. He turned and fled the abandoned loft, and left the young girl alone. Selina sighed and put a hand on her face, shaking her head. She remembered her last talk with Bruce. She hadn't exactly been friendly with him. She had tried to get him to fight her. Bruce was in the hands of Jerome Valeska now?

"Bruce," she muttered, sighing softly and reaching over to pet a stray cat, "You better be all right when we find you."

* * *

Bruce laid on the bed long after Jerome was gone. He ignored the throbbing he felt in his leg that followed his heartbeat. He ignored the strong smell metallic smell he knew to be blood. He ignored random gunshots and cackling laughter that sounded throughout the building. He ignored the fear which was swelling in his chest.

There was no need to be afraid, he reasoned. Alfred would have went to Detective Gordon by now. Detective Gordon would find him. He just had to hold on long enough for that to happen.

In the meantime, he would have to play it smart. He didn't fully understand what Jerome wanted out of him? To change his opinion of the people of Gotham? That didn't sound important enough for the newly resurrected psychopath to care about. What had that woman said earlier?

 _If he wants a pet, let him have it._

That was no only disturbing, but it was infuriating. Bruce Wayne was not a plaything.

A voice deep within him said that he could've gotten out of this by now. He had beat Jerome in a fight once, whose to say he couldn't do it again? Well, his leg, for one. Bruce supposed the real reason he hadn't really attacked Jerome was fear of what might happen. He remembered seeing his reflection in the mirror. He looked like a monster. He looked just like Jerome, in a way. He didn't want to look like that.

It was senseless to go back and forth like this. He would be all right. Someone would find him. He would go home and Jerome would be sent to Arkham. He just had to be patient.

The throbbing in his leg broke that patience and caused him to groan in frustration. He sat upright and found that the room spun when he did. Had he really lost that much blood? He felt queasy. He shook it off and looked around the room. There was a puddle of blood on the end of the bed from when Jerome had dug his fingers into the wound. It had soaked into the bedsheets. The bullet itself was still lying on the floor several feet away where it had rolled to when Jerome dropped it. His jeans, which he had had yet to put back on, were lying next to him.

The room was cold, he realized, and he hesitantly looked over at the sink. The dripping of water led him to believe it had running water, and he needed to wash the blood off him. He looked at his leg and then at the sink and realized just how far away it felt. He pursed his lips.

He took hold of his leg with both hands and pulled it over the bed, then placed his good foot on the ground. He tested it first, and when he was sure it would do fine, he stood up shakily. Immediately, his hands grasped at the wall. A shooting pain went up his leg and he winced and bit the inside of his jaw. He balanced most of his weight on his good leg and began making his way by sliding against the wall. He took one step forward and nearly fell again.

Bruce grunted and paused to lean on the wall. This was ridiculous. He refused to let Jerome Valeska cripple him. He took another few steps forward and clenched his jaw tightly to avoid making a sound.

The walk to the sink was agonizing, but he felt the small swell of victory in his chest when his hands reached out and grasped onto it. He steadied himself and let his breathing regulate. He wiped his face.

Shakily, Bruce turned the nozzles and was relieved when water rushed from the faucet. leaned his shoulder on the wall to support himself and dipped his hands in to cool water, splashing his face. The water calmed his growing nerves and relaxed him. He propped himself up on the wall before reaching in and wetting his hands. He carefully bent and washed off his leg.

Once he had cleaned off the red tinting his skin, he turned the water off and hobbled his way back to the bed. He avoided the blotch of blood on the sheets and grabbed his jeans. He went to slide them on, hissing when the fabric brushed over the covered hole in his leg. His jeans were bloodied, too, but at least they were warm.

He sat there silently for a moment, regaining his breath and trying to stop the room's spinning. He leaned back on his arms and looked around slowly. Who knew when Jerome would be back?

Bruce blinked slowly and reached up, rubbing his face. He did not want to fall asleep here. There was an entire cult of Jerome's followers and the _prophet_ himself somewhere in this building, and he did not want to close his eyes and give one of them the chance to slit his throat. _Not that you could do anything to stop them_ , he thought sullenly, shaking his head. He was completely at their mercy at the moment. That part frightened him more than anything else.

Still, he felt sick and light-headed, as if he could pass out at any given moment. His head ached and his vision was blotched.

Bruce slowly pulled himself to sit up enough to lean on the wall one side of the bed was pressed against. He faced the door and watched it expectantly. Eventually, Jerome would come back. When he did, Bruce had to be awake. He refused to let the older boy catch him asleep ever again.

The throbbing in his leg had become a dull ache. He could feel his head throbbing with it. He could feel it pounding with his heart. Black spots still clouded his vision. Just how much had he bled, anyway? Bruce was still exhausted from the night before. He blinked, jerked awake, and then blinked slower.

He felt his body starting to slide down the wall to meet the bed. He tried to hold himself up, but a heaviness overcame him and he found himself on his side, back pressed against the wall, body slightly curled. He still faced the door, which remained untouched. He could hear nothing on the floor. Faint sounds of laughter from elsewhere in the building, but nothing on this floor. Had Jerome left it that way on purpose?

His eyelids grew heavier. He tried to snap himself awake, but nothing worked. He felt himself slipping into oblivion. The abyss of sleep was becoming unavoidable.

He groaned, his vision blurring, the room spinning faster. He closed his eyes to it, finding that to stare out at the spinning room hurt his eyes. He passed into sleep.

 _The carnival was loud and full of laughter. A few running children with their faces painted like clowns passed him, giggling and yelling. Bruce looked around slowly. The lights of the rides were bright and warm. The colors were a kaleidoscope to his eyes. The laughter echoed in all directions. It seemed to him that everyone was having a good time._

 _He walked slowly. The area was slightly blurred, he realized. He could not see anyone's face entirely. He could merely catch glimpses. In fact, almost everyone kept their backs turned to him. That didn't stop them from laughing in delight and hurrying from ride to ride, from performance to performance. No one seemed to notice him, though._

 _Bruce frowned. Where was he?_

 _He looked around and spotted a man with his back to him. He was wearing a gray suit and tie and seemed to be watching the carousel. Bruce walked up to him. "Excuse me?" he called, nearing the man. "Can you help me, please? I'm not sure where I am." The man didn't answer and didn't turn around, and Bruce frowned. "Excuse me? I just need-" He reached out and touched the man's shoulder. The man turned and Bruce jumped back, gasping. It was the man from Jerome's carnival. It was the one who had been dropped into the dunk tank. The difference was, this man's face had been gnawed and chewed, and half eaten off. He was a bloody mess, and he looked like he was in pain._

 _The man tilted his head in a slow, demented manner and let out a low chuckle that became a cackle. Bruce stepped backwards quickly, unable to tear his eyes away from the man. Around him, people were suddenly showing their faces. They were all perfect horrors; Some looked mauled like the man in the gray suit, some had bullet holes in their heads and chests, some had been slashed with knives, and some were missing eyes and ears._

 _Bruce stumbled backwards and fell into someone. Two hands grasped him and he heard a familiar, raspy voice say, "What's the matter, Bruce? Aren't you having a good time?"_

 _Bruce gasped and yanked himself out of Jerome's grasp, turning to face the red haired man. Jerome was dressed in his ringleader costume. Jerome was watching him closely, head tilted, looking fascinated. "Where are we?" Bruce demanded, looking around at the disfigured, mutilated people who were all watching them and giggling, their heads tilted very much like Jerome's._

 _"What, you can't see it?" Jerome asked, looking around. "Just take a look!"_

 _Bruce frowned and slowly looked around. Realization dawned on him. "This is the carnival you took me to last night," he said softly._

 _"Bingo!" Jerome chirped, holding his arms out wide. "You like it?"_

 _"What's wrong with them all?" Bruce asked, ignoring Jerome's question._

 _Jerome's eyebrows furrowed and he looked around at the people watching them. Some didn't even have eyes to watch, and they merely faced them with empty sockets. "Whaddya mean, what's wrong?" he asked. "They're free."_

 _"They're hurt," Bruce snapped, looking at them in horror._

 _"No," Jerome said, slowly, as if explaining something to a child, "Look at them. They're laughing. They've never been happier."_

 _"They're dead," the younger boy whispered._

 _"Exactly!" The ginger gave a cackle and looked around happily. "Y'ever heard the saying 'pain nourishes', Bruce?" he asked, but Bruce was hardly listening to him. The people were slowly closing in on him, and he felt very claustrophobic in that moment. "Bruce? Hey!" He snapped his fingers and Bruce looked up at him. Rolling his eyes, Jerome waved his arms at the people who begrudgingly stopped walking._

 _Bruce hesitated. When he was certain they were no longer advancing, he slowly met Jerome's eyes again. "They're monsters," he said quietly. "You made monsters."_

 _Jerome's eyebrows went up and he looked around, examining the hideous civilians thoughtfully. "If you want to put it that way," he said, shrugging. He chuckled. "People are the real monsters, Brucie. I made them... better." He looked at Bruce with a dangerous glint in his eyes and smiled slowly. "I bet I can fix you, too. Let's see. We'll start with a smile."_

 _He began to advance suddenly on Bruce, much to the boy's dismay. He gasped and moved to back away but found himself surrounded on all sides by the mauled hordes of people. Jerome was on him in an instant, a knife in his hand. Bruce thrashed. "No! Let me go! Let me go!" Laughter surrounded him on all sides, Jerome's rising above the others'. He grabbed the back of Bruce's head, pushing the knife towards his face._

 _Bruce screamed._

He woke with a scream and looked around the room wide eyed. He was drenched in sweat and his heart was racing. A nightmare. He had had a nightmare. Bruce coughed, gasping for air, his mouth gaping like a fish out of water. He closed his eyes slowly and put his head in his hands.

"Whoa," said a raspy voice, "I didn't realize a boy your age could get his voice so high."

Bruce jumped and looked up to find Jerome Valeska sitting at the end of the bed.


	5. Taking Our Time

Bruce stared wide eyed at the psychopath sitting at the end of the bed. Jerome didn't move. He was sitting with his hands resting on either side of him, a casual expression on his stretched face. He merely stared back in what seemed like fascination.

"H-How long have you been sitting there?" Bruce asked, his voice coming out choked. His heart was still racing from the vivid dream in which Jerome had been a terror.

"Three hours," Jerome replied blandly.

Bruce's eyes bulged. "What?" he asked, strangled on his own voice which came out in a croak.

Jerome burst into maniacal laughter and slapped his hand on his thigh. His whole body shook from the cackles and it filled every space of air in the room. Bruce felt the hair on his arms prickle. "Oh, God," Jerome wheezed, "You should've seen your face. Nah, kid. I've been here maybe five minutes. Would've been less, but, uh-" He snickered. "You were talkin' in your sleep."

The young billionaire first relaxed when he realized Jerome hadn't really been watching him sleep for hours, however he tensed again when the maniac mentioned sleep talking. He felt his face heat up in embarrassment. "I did?" he asked, hesitantly.

Jerome nodded his head with an "uh-huh" before standing up off the bed. "Oh, yeah," he said, waving his arms around as he spoke, "called my name out and everything. Really, Brucie, I'm flattered you would think so highly of me as to-"

"I did not say your name," Bruce snapped, glaring at the older boy. Jerome's look of amusement only upset him all the more. "I wasn't even dreaming about you." Jerome quirked an eyebrow and chuckled, but remained silent. Bruce frowned. "What?" he asked hesitantly.

Jerome grinned. "Oh, nothin'. You're a terrible liar, though."

Bruce's eyes widened and he looked away sharply. "What do you want?"

The ginger chuckled. "Is that any way to talk to your doctor?" Jerome asked, looking at him with an animalistic tilt of his head. The look on Bruce's face must have amused him, because he let out a giggle. He shook his head and made his way over to Bruce, which caused the boy to push himself backward against the wall. Jerome stopped. "Somebody's wide awake now, huh?"

"What do you want?" Bruce repeated, his tone like pure venom.

Jerome clicked his tongue. "It's not what I want, Brucie," he said, making his way over slowly now, "It's what you need." He made it to the other side of the bed and Bruce pressed his back against the wall, trying to keep as much distance between himself and the maniac as possible. At the moment, his leg was preventing him from getting very far away from Jerome, and he was vaguely aware of the throbbing once more.

"I need to leave," Bruce replied, trying to adopt the same calm, authoritative voice he used when speaking to the chairmen of Wayne Enterprises.

Jerome chuckled and shook his head. "Is that what you think?" he asked.

"You don't have any use of me. If you're interested in a ransom, you will be paid whatever amount you see fit." He watched Jerome give a thoughtful expression and fold his arms, nodding his head. "Money's no problem. Whatever it is you want, I'm sure an arrangement can be made."

"Anything I want, huh?" Jerome asked, sounding interested.

Bruce nodded his head. "Of course. If you let me call Alfred, I can get any details set in motion. I just need a phone to make the call." His heart was pounding. Perhaps the psychopath could be reasoned with. Perhaps a bargain could be made.

Jerome lowered his head and nodded it a few times like he was considering something and then he looked up abruptly. "So, lemme get this straight," he said, suddenly plopping himself down on the bed. Bruce resisted the urge to flinch away as Jerome sat, feet on the floor and body turned to face him. "You call the butler, give him my price, and then I take you to a drop off spot to take the money and leave you with said butler. That about it?"

"That's correct," Bruce replied.

"Nah," Jerome said, waving his arm dismissively. Bruce's face fell. "You see, Bruce, I don't care about that money. Just like I don't care that if the GCPD sees me, they're going to gun me down like an animal." He smiled widely. "I told you I was going to teach you about the truth of Gotham and that's what I intend to do." Bruce stared at the man in a mixture of disgust and horror. He shook his head slowly, but Jerome still continued. "You're misguided fantasy of _heroes_ in a place like _Gotham_ is endearing, I'll admit. Gives you that cute kid charm. However!" Here he held up a finger as he began to make his point. "We all gotta grow up eventually, Bruce. No, you're not goin' anywhere. You're going to stay right here, _with me_ , and we're going to clean up those silly _delusions_."

"Last night, you were intent on killing me," Bruce said, sitting up somewhat.

"Yes," Jerome replied.

"Why change your mind now?"

"Yesterday, you were literally stalling time before I killed you. Now you're here asking why I'm not? You're a fickle little guy, aren't ya?"

Bruce growled in annoyance. "That didn't answer my question," he snapped.

The red head rolled his eyes dramatically. "What do you want from me? Huh? You want me to go into my evil-villain plan? Pull out a blackboard? Maybe show you some notes? You want a speech or something?"

"I want an explanation," Bruce replied, gaining his confidence back. His voice had risen slightly to rise over Jerome's own, which had been getting louder with each question.

Jerome clicked his tongue. By the look in his eyes, Bruce could see that he had annoyed the psychopath. There might have been a smile on his face, but it didn't reach his eyes. Jerome's eyes glinted dark insanity and cruelty. It should have frightened Bruce - and to an extent, it did - but there was also some amount of glee at the very fact that he had angered him. Bruce lifted his chin, meeting the psychopath's eyes with his own confident gaze.

Suddenly, Jerome began to laugh. It came out in short ha's in a deep, raspy voice. The sound brought chills to Bruce. "God, I can't wait to unhinge that little mind," he muttered. "I can't wait to set fire to that _pride_ , destroy that _perseverance_ , and eat away that _hope_." His smile darkened, if that were even possible. "I'm going to take my time, though. I want to savor it. We'll start out small. We'll break you down slowly, and then when you find yourself slipping into madness and crying out for help, I'll snap the ties."

His laughter became hysterical, but Bruce found himself trembling slightly. He swallowed down bile and tried to make his voice even when he said, "They're going to find me."

"God, are you still on that?" Jerome asked incredulously. He suddenly reached out and grabbed Bruce by the back of the neck. The boy yelped in surprise and tried to pull himself free. Jerome pulled him forward much to Bruce's dismay. He found himself leaned forward and staring up wide eyed at the ginger. "You wanna hear what I figure'll happen?" he asked, absently squeezing the back of Bruce's neck and causing him to wince. "I bet that they'll search for _maybe_ a week. A week and a half tops. Then, when they can't find you, and they have no idea where you are, they'll _give up_."

Jerome smiled widely as he said those words, his free hand lifting to present his theory. "They'll say, 'Well, there's no way Jerome Valeska has the kid still alive'. They'll be so afraid of this _issue_ hurting their reputation, they may even lie to the public. Say you were found dead. Have a little memorial. Then they'll move on."

"You're wrong," Bruce whispered, trying to pull himself free from Jerome's vice grip. "You're a liar and a lunatic, and you're wrong!" He shoved at the older boy's chest and Jerome laughed, letting Bruce go and watching the boy hit the wall from the force of the push.

"You think so?" Jerome mocked, grinning widely. "Some of the guys downstairs say it'll take even less than that, but we all know how stubborn Jimbo is."

"Detective Gordon will not give up, and neither will Alfred," Bruce said venomously. He sat himself up once more. "Nothing you say will change my mind."

Jerome chuckled. He reached out despite Bruce's attempts to shove his hands away and roughly patted Bruce's cheek. "Well, I've always figured actions speak louder than words. Speaking of which, I gave that cheek quite the little bruise this morning, huh?" He snickered and grabbed Bruce's face, yanking him over once more. He pinched the boy's cheek and smiled widely when Bruce winced. His face had in fact turned a faint purple under his eye from Jerome's hand. Bruce hadn't expected it from the ginger. He didn't remember Jerome hitting so hard during their brawl last night.

"Bet it doesn't sting near as much as your leg though, am I right?" he added lowly. He tilted his head down and stared at him wickedly. Bruce frowned and found he couldn't look the man in the face. He turned his gaze to the corner of the room. Jerome pouted when he got no answer. "Oh, come on, Bruce. It's polite to answer your elders when they speak to you. Hmm?" He gave Bruce's face another squeeze, only this time he did not let up. "Does your leg hurt? Be honest now."

His hand continued to tighten until Bruce was trying to push Jerome away. The older boy did not let go this time, and instead he grabbed the back of Bruce's neck once more with his free hand and held his face in place. When Bruce found himself effectively trapped, he let out a sound between a groan and a whimper. He felt tears prick the edges of his eyes.

"Well?" Jerome ground out, giving Bruce's head a little shake. "Does it hurt?"

Bruce whined softly and shut his eyes tightly to stop the tears from falling. "Yes," he said meekly.

"Look at me when I'm talking to ya, Bruce," Jerome growled, and shook his head once more. Bruce opened his eyes wide and looked up at him with watery eyes. It caused Jerome to grin. He cocked his head and gave a look of fake sympathy, pouting a little in a mocking way. "There. Isn't that better?"

"Let go of me," Bruce murmured, cursing the quiver in his voice. "Please."

Jerome gave a look as if he was thinking hard on it. "Well," he drawled. "All right." He let go of Bruce suddenly in a rough manner, and the boy responded by shying away as close to the wall as he could get. His pale face was reddened with Jerome's fingerprints, and his eyes swam with tears he had managed to keep from falling.

Bruce reached up and wiped his eyes quickly, glaring off at a point on the wall. Jerome cackled. "Yeah," he said, sounding cheerful, "I can't wait to set fire to that pride of yours, Brucie."

"Don't you have something to do?" Bruce said through set teeth.

Jerome gave him a stern look. "Now, Bruce, I would've thought they had taught you better manners in that big mansion," he scolded. The severe look he received was gratifying. "As a matter of fact, _we_ do indeed." He smiled widely and reached out to grab Bruce's arm.

Bruce's eyes widened. "We?" he echoed. He winced when Jerome pulled him forward once more and he almost toppled onto his stomach, his head hanging over the bed near Jerome's leg.

"Yep," Jerome chirped. "Come on."

He stood up abruptly and, putting his hands under Bruce's arms, pulled him off the bed. The boy winced and gasped as he found himself on his feet. Jerome let go of him only for Bruce to nearly fall into him. Jerome caught him with a grunt. He gave an annoyed sound. "You really can't move that leg, can you?"

"And whose fault is that?" Bruce snapped, shoving at Jerome's chest.

"Don't get snappy with me," Jerome replied, rolling his eyes. "All right, come on." He grabbed the boy by the torso and began pulling him. Bruce yelped, limping after him quickly, and falling into him with each step. "Honestly, I should make you crawl it. If we weren't so short on time, I would. Let's go, Brucie."

Jerome half dragged and half carried him out of the room, speedily making his way down the hall. Bruce bit the inside of his jaw to keep from groaning in pain. With each step they made, he felt shooting pains in his leg. His leg gave way with every movement. Jerome refused to slow down, and Bruce struggled to keep up. Instead of going to the stairwell, Jerome took a turn and found an old looking elevator lift. It had a metal gate and look rusted. Bruce briefly wondered if it even worked.

His question was answered when Jerome pulled back the gate and pushed him inside. Bruce yelped and immediately when he was shoved off of Jerome, he fell onto his hands and knees. Jerome walked in after him casually, shut the gate, and hit the button. The lift made a loud creak and they began the slow descent.

Bruce sat on the ground, watching Jerome carefully. "Where are we going?" he asked nervously.

Jerome looked down at him and gave him a wide smile. "Your welcoming party, of course."


	6. Welcoming Party

**Hey guys!**

 **First of all, sorry this took so long. We had company and then I had orientation yesterday, so I've been rather busy. Secondly, thanks to everyone who has commented and reviewed so far! Your comments mean the world to me! Keep them coming!**

 **Also, for those of you who may be following this story on Tumblr: I recently deleted my blog (prince-ofgotham) and then remade it. It was originally a secondary blog. I wanted to make it a primary blog. So, it is now back up and running. There, I post the chapters of Gotham Has No Heroes and also do RPs and requests. If you have any requests as such, you're welcome to bring them there.**

 **Now, I've asked before and some of you have answered, but I'll ask again. What sort of things do you want to see in this story? Bruce's rescue doesn't count - it'll come eventually guys, but his rescue is not what this story is about! It's about the time before that! - so what sort of engaging would you like to see between Jerome and Bruce?**

 **Warning: This chapter involves murder, some gore, and knife carving. Read at your own discretion.**

 **Enjoy!**

Bruce was more than a little frightened as the elevator took them down to the basement level. Jerome look ecstatic, and Bruce became increasingly nervous as to what the lunatic had in mind. Welcoming party? What exactly did he mean by that? What did Jerome have planned? Bruce had a terrible feeling that something bad was going to happen very soon.

The lift came to a screeching, abrupt halt and they were descended in mostly darkness. The only real light came from a red bulb which signaled the elevator was up and running. Bruce could see Jerome grinning at him in the crimson light. The light hit his Cheshire smile and made his eyes look dark. Bruce shuddered. In the darkness, in the basement level of the building, and with the red light gleaming on the grinning lunatic, Bruce wondered if he had died and been sent to Hell. Jerome Valeska resembled the Devil himself.

"Here's our stop," Jerome said through his grinning teeth. He reached behind him and opened the gate which creaked and groaned as if in protest. Still smiling, he bent down and hauled Bruce to his feet.

He pulled the boy out and into the open area. Bruce figured this was once a boiler room of sorts. It was huge and dark, but he smelled smoke and could see firelight. Again, he wondered if he had been dropped into Hell.

As he saw Jerome's cultists, he almost confirmed his own thoughts. They were all painted up, wearing their strange costumes that mimicked Jerome's. Some wore straight jackets like it was a fashion statement. Most of them had painted on smiles and dark paint around their eyes. They were chanting and cackling. They blasted their loud rock music and danced wildly. Around them, barrels were alight and bright. They looked like a tribe of lunatics praying to their god of madness.

Bruce stumbled. He was frozen for a moment, despite Jerome's insistent pushing him forward. Two cultists came over wheeling a computer chair and Bruce was promptly dropped into it. Jerome grabbed a short bungee cord and looked at him with a grin. "Seatbelts are important on any vehicle excursion," he stated, wrapping it around Bruce's front and hooking it around the back.

"What's going on?" Bruce asked.

Jerome was humming as he reached under Bruce's seat and hit the lever, lifting the chair high enough that Bruce's feet could not drag the ground. "You know you ask the same questions repeatedly as if you expect a different answer," Jerome said conversationally. He made sure Bruce was secure in the computer chair before rolling him forward, humming.

"That's because most of your answers are unintelligible and cryptic," Bruce muttered.

"Watch it, boy billionaire. You don't want to piss off the guy who's pushing your crippled body around on a computer chair. He might just give you a little push in the direction of one of those flaming barrels." He chuckled.

Bruce scowled. "You already told me you don't want me dead now," he pointed out.

Jerome nodded. "True. I did say that. However, we have plenty of fire extinguishers on hand and I said I would keep you alive. Didn't say you'd be in pretty condition."

He cackled, and Bruce decided it would be best to be silent. He was rolled over into the center of the rave going on and looked around curiously, albeit with caution and disturbance. They were all spinning and giggling. Their laughter was cruel. Bruce recognized a few of them from earlier that night and that morning. "What are they all doing?" he asked, more to himself than to Jerome.

"They're celebrating, of course," Jerome replied. "Not only did we bring the city to its knees just last night, but we managed to capture Gotham's Prince twice in a row. They're pretty pumped."

"They're demented," Bruce replied quietly, shaking his head slowly.

"Someone's a little judgmental, huh?" Jerome chuckled. "And to think, half the reason they're celebrating is because of you."

Bruce frowned. "What do you mean?"

"This is _your_ welcome home party," Jerome explained. "They're celebrating your arrival. We've planned all sorts of _fun_ for you." He cackled. Bruce squirmed somewhat in the chair and Jerome tutted. "Ah ah ah, don't bother with that. Even if you manage to break free, what are you going to do? Crawl your way to freedom? I'd honestly like to see that, Brucie."

Bruce set his jaw but said nothing. He watched the dancing cultists in silence. Jerome watched them a moment longer, his hands on the top of Bruce's chair, and then he finally apparently had seen enough because he released the chair and stepped forward. He cleared his throat. "Felons and criminals!" he shouted, and he was immediately given attention to by the cultists who watched him with obsessive smiles and adoring expressions. "Today, we celebrate for a night well done. Our fun was almost brought to an end by the swine of police force known as the GCPD, but thanks to some quick work, we were able to make it out unscathed." The crowd erupted into cheer.

 _Not completely unscathed. You got your face beat off_ , Bruce thought sourly, but he didn't say it.

"But that isn't the only reason we're celebrating, is it?" Jerome continued, and the crowd began to chuckle. "No, we're also celebrating the arrival of our very special _guest_ and now long term tenant, the Prince of Gotham himself, _Bruce Wayne_."

Jerome gestured to Bruce and the crowd went mad once more. Bruce stared around wide eyed and struggled in his chair. "So how do we welcome our new friend into our home?" Jerome asked. The crowd grinned and jeered. "The best way we know how, of course. With some chaos, bloodshed, and a little initiation."

He opened up his arms wide and seemed to gesture to a few of the cultists, who disappeared in the shadows. The rest of them went completely wild. Their screams echoed and bounced off the walls of the large basement area. The sound of it terrified Bruce. He was still trying to struggle his way out of his binds, his panic overriding the sensible side of his brain who knew that he wouldn't get far even if he got free. He was running over Jerome's words in his mind, trying to decipher what they meant, when suddenly he saw the cultists returning from the dark.

They weren't alone.

Jerome's followers had civilians with them. Some were tied to hospital beds and gurneys. Others were strapped to dollies and gagged. A few were just being led on leashes like dogs. Bruce's heart sank.

"What are you doing?" he asked suddenly. He turned his attention to Jerome who was watching the cultists with a satisfied expression.

"Shh, _hush_ ," replied the psychopath, glancing at the paled boy, "Just watch."

The hostages and captives were brought closer. Jerome walked behind Bruce and rested his hands on the back of the chair. He bent down and said quietly, "The GCPD is so busy searching for you that they're neglecting these poor fools entirely. Tell me, Bruce, how does it feel to be put above others? For your safety to be valued over these people's? Is it gratifying and comforting, or is it making you feel guilty?"

"I don't see how it matters. If they find me, they find them and vise versa. They know you have all of us-"

"But they don't really care about these people because they're so strung up on finding the _prince_. Isn't that selfish, Brucie? Doesn't that irk you?"

It did irk him, but Bruce kept his face as blank as he could make it. Still, discomfort gleamed in his eyes and Jerome saw it. The ginger smiled wickedly. "These people are all in even more danger because no one is even bothering to look for them. All because they're too busy searching for the boy billionaire."

Bruce set his jaw and looked away. "Why are they here?" he asked quietly.

"Now, Bruce," Jerome scolded in a mockingly stern tone, "That's no way to treat guests. They're here for your sake, too, y'know? We had them come here just for you."

Bruce knew Jerome was trying to make him feel guilty and he did his best to ignore it. He couldn't let the bastard in. He wouldn't.

"If you're going to hurt someone, hurt me. Leave them alone," he stated, looking up at the psychopath. He felt a horrible sense of déjà vu from last night at the dunk tank, which was making him feel incredibly nauseous. "Leave them alone, Jerome."

"Y'know, I could almost swear you were a masochist with how much you beg for pain," Jerome said conversationally.

" _Jerome_ ," Bruce stressed.

Something about that seemed to cause the redhead to snap, because he swung Bruce's chair all the way around and leaned forward, his face too close to Bruce's for the younger boy's comfort. Jerome was grinning but the smile was not reaching his eyes. He had a cold look in them. When he spoke, it was in a raspy, dark voice. "I know you're eager to start the fun, Brucie. And believe me, so am I. But we got all day so you're just going to have to _wait your turn_."

The last words came out threateningly and rough. The smile faded somewhat to look more like Jerome was baring teeth at him and then suddenly reappeared. The older boy's eyes were wide and still avoid of any real joy. Bruce looked shaken.

"Now, Bruce," he began, wrapping one arm around the chair and wheeling him towards the man on the dolly. "Did you know that it was in some ancient customs that when royalty arrived, there would be sacrifices for them? Cows, sheep, that sort of thing. Now, this is Gotham. We don't have any farm animals." He laughed lowly. "But I remembered referring to these... people as sheep during our conversation last night and thought, 'Why not? It'll be a fun first-day activity'!"

Bruce's stomach churned. _No. No, he can't be serious. No. No._

Bruce met eyes with the frightened man tied and gagged to the dolly before being wheeled away from him. They both shared a look of terror and nausea. "This is sick," Bruce whispered.

"Thank you," Jerome replied proudly.

The young billionaire managed to shoot Jerome a seething look that caused Jerome to chuckle. "So how should we start, Brucie?" Around them, cultists had acquired weapons. One wielded a machete, a few held guns, one had a chainsaw. Bruce shook his head slowly. "Oh, c'mon, kiddo, make it a little fun!"

"Don't do it," Bruce said breathlessly. "Don't. Jerome, don't."

"I think the machete. You there! Machete to Hospital Bed 4!" Jerome directed, as if playing some vocal game of chess. The cultist grinned widely and began making their way over to a woman tied to a gurney. The woman realized the cultist was coming for her and immediately began to scream into a gag, struggling and shouting muffled pleas for help, for mercy, for anything other than death.

Bruce's heart began to pound as he watched the cultist get closer. Jerome turned the chair to face the hostage and hummed cheerfully. Bruce paled. "Jerome, call him off. Don't do this. Jerome. _Jerome_." The psychopath merely chuckled and ruffled Bruce's hair before hushing him and signaling him to be quiet and watch. The cultist had reached the bed now and held his hands up with the machete in it. If he brought it down now, it would surely sever the poor woman's head entirely. Bruce let out a small choked cry. "Jerome, _please._ "

Jerome gave a cackle of glee at the plea and winked at the cultist, the signal enough to let the follower know to go ahead. He swung the machete down and Bruce gave a cry of "Stop!"

Blood splattered. There was one muffled cry from the woman before the machete made it entirely through her neck. Bruce stared in horror as the cultists burst into applause and cheers. Jerome cackled. Bruce closed his eyes slowly.

The other hostages all gave cries of terror. Those on dog leashes whimpered and tried to scramble away, only to be yanked back in choking pulls by their captors. People on gurneys thrashed in terror. Those on the dollies struggled to free themselves.

"One down," Jerome cried out gleefully, "That one of the leash next!"

He swung Bruce's chair around the face the panicked man in question. Without hesitation, the cultist holding the leash took out a knife and came up behind the man. There was no warning before his throat was slit. Bruce closed his eyes and looked away this time. Jerome tutted.

"Brucie," he huffed, "It's rude manners to ignore something people have worked so hard to give you. The other on the leash, please."

Bruce's eyes remained shut and he kept his face turned to the side even as he felt Jerome swivel the chair. Suddenly, he felt a tight grip on his jaw. Jerome yanked his face around and Bruce's eyes opened wide as he felt the psychopath close to his ear. "Open your eyes and watch," Jerome ground out quietly. "Watch the life leave their eyes. Don't look away."

Bruce struggled but found that now that he was making eye contact with the woman on the leash, he couldn't look away. The cultist did not slit her throat. Instead, he pulled her to her feet and dragged her a short distance to a series of pipes and beams. Holding her by the back of the shirt, he threw the long leash over a beam and then grabbed it when it came around the other side. Without further ado, he yanked down and the woman went upward, letting out a strangled sound.

Jerome chuckled lowly in Bruce's ear, but the young boy was frozen as he watched the woman gasping and struggling for air, clutching at her throat. Her feet scraped the ground and she flailed, her face turning purple. She struggled for several minutes, in which Jerome's hand still on Bruce's jaw tightened painfully while he laughed gleefully in his ear and Bruce was unable to move or look away.

She finally stopped struggling, her body limp, her face twisted horribly and her mouth agape. Jerome was still laughing, as were his cultists. The one holding the leash released it suddenly and she fell with a thud. Her body crumpled. Bruce felt his heart drop with her.

"On to the next!"

The next few minutes were spent in dismay and disgust. Jerome kept Bruce close as murders took place. At one point, a chainsaw was used to hack off a young man's body parts - first the legs, then the arms, and finally the head - which resulted in blood splattering everywhere, Bruce's face included. Jerome had merely cackled and smeared it across his face.

Finally, there was only one left. It was the man on the dolly; The first man Jerome had pushed Bruce towards. Bruce was pale looking. His eyes held a broken, pained look. He looked like he might be sick. His body was trembling. Jerome was slowly spinning him in circles, giggling maniacally as he did so. "One left, Brucie! How are we gonna do it? Arrow in the eye? Boil him alive? Suffocation? Ahh, I know."

He smiled suddenly and wheeled Bruce closer. The man on the dolly was sweating profusely. The gag in his mouth was damp from saliva. He was breathing heavily but had stopped screaming long ago. They all had stopped screaming so much at one point. They had all realized there was no one to help them. He was watching Bruce with tired, terrified eyes.

Jerome hummed happily as he wheeled Bruce a few feet from the man and then stopped. To the young billionaire's surprise, he unsnapped the bungee cord and let it fall loose in Bruce's lap. "What are you doing?" Bruce asked. His voice sounded foreign to him. It was small and quiet. It was weak, and he hated that.

Jerome delighted in it.

Instead, of answering, the ginger maniac only smiled and took a gun from his pocket. He waved it in Bruce's face. "Ever shot a gun before?" he asked conversationally. He got no answer, which didn't surprise him. "Well, here's your chance."

He stepped behind Bruce and grabbed the boy by both arms. He put the gun in his hands and forced Bruce's finger on the trigger before guiding his hands to aim right at the man. The restrained man let out a whimper and the cultists chuckled and watched in cruel fascination. Bruce could not move his arms away from the man; Jerome's grip was tight and immovable. Bruce was weak from blood loss and trauma.

"Do it," Jerome instructed quietly.

Bruce shook. "What?" he asked softly.

Jerome growled. "You know what," he replied. "Do it. Shoot him. Kill him."

The young billionaire stared wide eyed at the man in front of him. Surrounding them in a circle, the cultists watched eagerly to see what the boy would do. Would he shoot the man at Jerome's command?

"No," Bruce whispered. " _No_."

"Do it," Jerome repeated. "It doesn't matter, Brucie. Come on. Just pull the trigger. Pull the damned trigger, Bruce. Kill him."

Bruce could feel his heart pounding in his chest. He felt dizzy. The basement was hot. It smelled terribly of blood. He felt as if he might throw up. He swallowed thickly and narrowed his eyes. "I will not kill," he said quietly. Louder, he repeated it. "I will not kill."

Jerome seemed to give an annoyed growl. " _Do it_!"

" _No._ "

That seemed to anger the ginger further, who gave a little snarl and yanked the gun from Bruce's grasp. Without hesitance, he pointed it at the man on the dolly and pulled the trigger. The man's head splattered with brains and blood. Splatters hit Bruce's face.

Bruce winced and slowly reached up, wiping at the mess on his face. He let out a ragged breath and turned slightly to look at Jerome. The ginger wasn't looking at him. He was looking off somewhere, looking angry and terrifying. Bruce let a confident, somewhat smug expression cover his face. "Problem, Jerome?" he asked.

The psychopath's head snapped in Bruce's direction and his eyes narrowed at him. There was pure, insane cruelty within the wild eyes of Jerome Valeska. He smiled, but it was not a happy smile. "Y'know, _Bruce_ ," he spat, "It's occurred to me that I said something about initiation. We haven't really gotten to that, though, have we? You're one of us now. You need something to prove it."

He looked around wildly as if searching for ideas. His eyes landed on a boiler with the signature smiley face spray painted on it. It was just like the one they had left in Wayne Manor. An evil smile passed across his face and he laughed lowly. "I know," he whispered.

He reached out suddenly and threw Bruce onto the ground. The boy yelped, landing on his side. A shooting pain went up his leg and he bit his lip to keep from crying out. Jerome was on him in an instant, pushing him on his back and sitting on his chest. "Hey! Get over here and hold him down. Hold down his arms and legs." As he said it, he yanked Bruce's shirt over his head much to the younger boy's fury.

"Get off me! Don't touch me! Get off!"

Jerome tossed the shirt aside, ignoring the flurry of punches landing on his chest and aimed at his face. Bruce never got that far; Four cultists dashed over. Two grabbed his arms and two grabbed his legs. Jerome smiled and took out a knife.

Bruce lifted his head in alarm and Jerome responded by putting his arm on Bruce's neck and pushing it back down. Bruce couldn't lift his head.

"Consider this making it official, kiddo," Jerome ground out with a laugh.

He suddenly pushed the tip of the knife into the skin on the right side of the top of Bruce's chest. The boy hissed out in pain as Jerome began to carve into his skin. The knife tearing into his skin was shallow enough to not cause any fatal damage, but it was quickly bringing a lot of blood and it burned terribly. Bruce bit the inside of his jaw to stop the cries from escaping. It was agony. Jerome's work was slow as he made sure to make it precise.

Finally, he could hold back no longer and let out a scream. "Stop! Stop it!" He tried desperately to struggle but the arms holding him kept him securely against the floor. He felt tears prick his eyes. "Stop, please! Jerome! _Please_!"

Jerome didn't stop. He cackled and let the knife drag painfully across his skin. It dug into his flesh and carved the familiar smiley face there where it would eventually scar. Bruce's shrieks and cries echoed across the basement, mixing with the cackles of the cultists and Jerome himself.

He passed out before the maniac was even finished.

* * *

"Are you sure about this one, Jim?" Harvey asked as they pulled up to Mayor Cobblepot's home. _Mayor_ , Jim thought exasperatedly. _Oswald as mayor? Next they'll elect Nygma for president._

"Jim?" Harvey asked again.

"What? Oh," Jim glanced at him, "No, not really. But we're going to need help with finding Jerome. His entire base of followers has completely disappeared off the face of the planet, which would be great and all but so has Bruce Wayne, _and_ a handful of other people."

"But _Penguin_? Really? What next, you gonna call up Barbara?"

"Don't jinx it," Jim replied cynically as he climbed out of the car and made his way to the house. Harvey followed after him begrudgingly. Jim glanced at him. "Just let me do the talking, okay?"

"No problem there," Harvey replied.

They soon found themselves in the posh sitting room, waiting patiently for the mayor. When Oswald came limping in, he was smiling a little too widely. " _James_ ," he greeted, arms wide, "It's so good to see you again, my friend. And you, Mr. Bullock. What can I do for you?"

"Having a rough time lately, Mr. Mayor?" Harvey asked blandly. "I heard you had a break down."

Jim rolled his eyes and closed them. What had he just said about letting him do the talking?

"Mm, yes," Oswald admitted curtly. "I have had, as you said, a rough time. I'm doing much better. Thank you for asking. Now, James," he quickly turned his attention to Jim, "What can I help you with?"

"Bruce Wayne is missing," Jim stated, getting right down to the point. "This morning at around seven o'clock, Jerome Valeska broke into Wayne Manor and knocked his butler unconscious. When the butler came to, Bruce and Jerome were gone. He's been missing all day. We have no doubt that Jerome has Bruce holed up somewhere, but he and his followers have dropped off the map. We need help finding them."

Oswald smiled. "And so you want the mayor to-"

"No," Jim interjected. It caused the thin smile on Oswald to twitch and Harvey to give a confused look. "I don't want the mayor's help. I want the Penguin's help. I need underworld involved to take down underworld-"

"Do not refer to that giggling adolescent as part of the underworld," Oswald muttered.

" _At any rate_ ," Jim pressed, "Jerome's clever and he has a lot of followers. A lot of people are practically worshipping him like a god. I need the Penguin's control over the underworld. Someone's sure to know _something._ "

Oswald was smiling again. His eyes were gleaming and he looked delighted, which almost always meant he was being smug. "Well, as acting mayor of Gotham, it would be my pleasure to assist in finding young Bruce Wayne," he said.

"Wonderful. Then I-"

"However," Oswald interjected. "As the Penguin, king of Gotham's underworld and criminals, I require something in return."

Jim set his jaw. He had known this was coming from the beginning but he had elected to ignore it and try to shimmy past it. "What do you want?" he asked coldly.

Oswald smiled. "A favor, of course."


	7. Laugh A Little

**Hi, everyone!**

 **Sorry for any delays. I've been a little preoccupied.**

 **A lot of this chapter is owed to** **Safirefly, who has been _incredibly_ helpful with plot ideas and general morale. So, huge thanks to them for the "laughing" idea. I hope I got the main idea of your image. :)**

 **As always, I'm so open to ideas and advice! My intention is to delve darker as the story goes. I really want to try and capture the madness in Jerome, along with obsession and cruelty. I don't think we've really gotten to see enough of the character (and I swear, if we don't get more of him in Season 4, I'm personally going to riot) and so I'm trying to use my own spin and take on how I think his mind could work.**

 **As the usual warnings go: this story will involve dark themes, manipulation, possible Stockholm Syndrome, torture, violence, gore, etc.**

 **This story can also be found at my Tumblr blog prince-ofgotham.**

 **Enjoy!**

When Bruce woke, he was acutely aware of a few things. First of all, he was incredibly cold. Secondly, there was a searing burning sensation against his chest. Thirdly, his leg ached.

He pried his eyes open and was met with the gray, cold room he had been originally placed in. He was lying on the bed and his shirt was lying alongside him. The room was dark. Bruce turned his head to glance over at the window and saw that it was mostly dark out. The sun seemed to be beginning to rise. He looked around slowly without moving. He was alone in the room.

Sitting up, he winced at reached up to touch his chest. There was dried blood all over his skin. He glanced down and grimaced at what he saw.

Jerome's smiley face mark was carved into his skin. His flesh was red and angry looking, and the wound might not have been fatal, but it was deep. Bruce knew immediately it would scar. The thought infuriated and humiliated him. What would he say when he got home? How would he explain this to Alfred? How would he explain it to Selina? How could he explain that Jerome Valeska had _branded_ him as a belonging out of spite and sadism?

The thought made hot, angry tears well in Bruce's eyes, and he clenched his teeth to stop a sob from bubbling out of his throat. He wiped his face furiously.

A cold breeze flew in through the broken window and Bruce shuddered. He grabbed his shirt and pulled it on over his head, ignoring the pain he felt when the fabric brushed over the carved flesh. He grabbed at the semi-bloody sheet on the bed. He couldn't have cared less about sanitation at the moment.

Bruce pulled his uninjured leg up to curl into his chest and held the sheet around his body. It did little to provide warmth, and Bruce set his jaw to refrain his teeth from chattering. Nights were getting colder. The weather was rarely warm, but autumn was already here and there was no heat in the room.

He shut his eyes tightly and turned his face against the pillow. Someone was going to find him. Alfred was going to find him. Detective Gordon would not rest until he was safe again. He would see his loved ones again.

His mind drifted again to Selina and stayed there. The image of her on a rooftop in mid crouch after jumping across an alley stuck in his head. He remembered staying with her on the streets and the memory calmed him. He could remember every feature of her perfectly: the way her hair curled and fell around her face, the color of green which filled her eyes and the hazel hue which surrounded just around her pupils, the faint smile she took on when she wasn't trying to act tough or mad at him for something dumb he had said.

He didn't have many friends. In fact, Bruce didn't really have any friends his own age. He didn't even have any before the deaths of his parents. Selina was his one friend.

She wasn't just a friend, though. Bruce liked her. He _really_ liked her. He would have done anything just to make her happy.

Pining over Selina was not going to get him out of his current predicament. Bruce sighed and forced his body to ignore the throbbing in his leg and the burning in his chest. He forced his body to block out the cold. He was dizzy from blood loss and exhaustion. It didn't take him long to fall back to sleep, though this time his dreams were restless.

* * *

"Brucie." The name was quiet and practically sang out. "It's time to get up, big guy."

Bruce squinted his eyes shut and ignored the voice, turning his face further into the pillow. His eyelids felt heavy, there was an acute clench of hunger in his stomach, and the marring that had been done on his body was stinging terribly. He was vaguely aware of Jerome Valeska standing over him, trying to wake him. He had no intentions of responding.

Jerome chuckled and tilted his head. "Aw, come on, grumpy pants," he cooed mockingly. "You slept half the day yesterday and all night. It's time to get up." The raven haired boy gave no answer, and Jerome huffed. "Bruce, I said it's time to get up. _Get up_."

"What do you want?" Bruce grumbled into the pillow, begrudgingly rolling over slightly to squint up at the man standing over him.

Jerome clicked his tongue. "Not a morning person, huh?" he said, and giggled at the glare he received. "You can't expect me to let you lay around all day, now can you?"

"I don't see why not. I can't exactly move very much," Bruce growled. He was in a foul mood, and he was not willing to put up with Jerome's nonsense.

The ginger chuckled. "Not with that attitude," he replied. He paused and then a smirk crossed his face. "But I mean, if you'd rather, I can take the food I brought you and go. That what you want?" He asked it as if he were speaking to a child and Bruce despised that. He _hated_ being treated like a child more than anything. "Well? Want me to go?"

Bruce set his jaw and looked off. "No," he muttered, although it was the farthest thing from the truth. His options were food and Jerome or starvation and solitude. Although he liked solitude, he did not like starvation. So, Jerome it was.

Jerome beamed. "That's better. First of all, let's have a look at that bullet hole." He plopped down on the bed near Bruce's leg and reached out for it. Bruce instinctively yanked it away, causing him to grimace with pain. Jerome's face fell flat. "Are we really doing this again?" he asked in exasperation.

"I don't want you to touch it," he protested. Even Bruce realized how much of a child he sounded like at that moment. He pursed his lips.

Jerome stared at him in actual shock, and Bruce was both embarrassed and smug over that fact. "I have to change the bandages," he said slowly, deliberately, as if speaking to an idiot. Bruce hated that, too.

Bruce clenched his jaw and continued to hold his leg away from Jerome. He refused to meet Jerome's eyes and instead glared at a point in the floor.

Jerome gave an exasperated huff. He apparently decided to try again, because he began to repeat himself. "I have to change the-"

"I heard you the first time!" Bruce snapped haughtily.

"Then strip down to your boxers and let me look," Jerome replied simply. Bruce's eyes widened and his eyes snapped up to Jerome in alarm and fury. Jerome laughed. "What? Bashful, Brucie? We've already done this once before."

"And it was incredibly unpleasant the first time," Bruce pointed out.

"That doesn't mean it isn't necessary."

"It wouldn't be necessary if you hadn't shot me."

"I _warned_ you I was going to shoot you if you didn't stop running."

"And you expected me to actually stop running?!"

"Yes!" Jerome's arms went up in exasperation and he released a growl. "Have you always been this stubborn and argumentative? I recall you being more compliant. I know you're dealing with hormones and everything but _seriously,_ kid, I just want to wrap the damn hole up."

Bruce looked away with a frown, obviously displeased and uncomfortable, and entirely miserable. Jerome would have found it pleasant if he wasn't so annoyed. "Well?" the redhead pressed. "You going to be a big boy or do I have to undress you?"

Something about the words infuriated Bruce, and he found himself unbuttoning his jeans and pushing them down his legs. He hissed softly, the movement on his leg unpleasant and painful. Jerome stood back and watched with indifference as the jeans were pulled off the boy's ankles and laid to the side. "Shirt, too. We'll get that patched up while we're at it."

The raven haired boy hesitated. He didn't want anyone to see the marred flesh, Jerome included. It seared a hole through his pride and he despised it. Jerome saw this and rolled his eyes. "I _did_ it. I already know what it looks like. Now let me see."

"You're not a doctor," Bruce grumbled irritably as he yanked his shirt over his head and resisted a whine when the fabric brushed over the marks.

Jerome heard and smirked. "I'm _your_ doctor," he replied easily. He paused and tilted his head in a thoughtful way. "Dr. J. Good title, if I do say so myself."

"It's idiotic," Bruce responded dryly.

"Your attitude is really starting to wear me down, kiddo." Jerome reached forward and shoved Bruce back onto the bed as he had the day before. "On your stomach." Bruce winced but did as he was told, rolling onto his stomach while Jerome pulled his leg into his lap.

Bruce could feel Jerome working off the bloody bandages while humming to himself. To distract himself, he looked around the room. His eyes landed on a plate with what looked like a sandwich and a glass of water and he felt his stomach twist painfully. He looked away from the food to the door.

He felt cold air touch the bullet wound and hissed softly, lightly pulling at his leg in an almost twitching fashion. Jerome held onto his ankle and ignored it. "Do you actually know how to deal with a gunshot wound?" Bruce asked finally, still lightly tugging at his leg with every movement that Jerome made as if he didn't trust the man not to cause him more harm. Which, frankly, he didn't.

"You're not dead yet," Jerome replied, "So, I'd say I'm doing okay."

Bruce pursed his lips and looked away. He didn't like this at all. He had a terrible fear he was going to lose his leg.

If Jerome noticed, he didn't show it. He whistled casually as he redressed the wound tightly and then looked at him. "There, was that so bad?"

"Yes," the raven haired boy mumbled.

"And they say I'm dramatic." Jerome rolled his eyes and released Bruce's leg. The boy pulled it back immediately. Jerome looked at him expectantly and when Bruce merely stared at him, Jerome quirked an eyebrow and nodded at his chest. Bruce sighed deeply and sat up, but was unwilling to get very close to the ginger.

Jerome noticed. "Aw, what's the matter, Brucie? Bashful?"

"Stop calling me that. I'm not bashful. I don't want near you."

The psychopath chuckled. "You really are in a bad mood today, huh?" he asked casually. He crooked his finger at Bruce, signaling for him to get closer. "You can't have that food until I dress those cuts."

Bruce inched closer, but it hardly amounted to anything. "I don't have a lot of cause to be in a good mood," he responded dryly.

"I can't imagine why not."

There was a flicker of anger in Bruce's heart. He felt the fury take over him as it was apt to do. He had a tendency to be short tempered. "You _murdered_ those people last night! You slaughtered and tortured them! You murdered them in cold blood-"

"Their blood wasn't cold. You should know, it got all over you-"

"Shut up!" Bruce was shouting now. He was rising to sit up fully. "Nothing excuses what you did last night, or the night before that. You've been alive for two days now and all you've caused is death and destruction. You're a _monster_."

Jerome snarled and his hand snatched out, grabbing Bruce by the throat. The boy yelped in surprise as he was yanked over suddenly. Jerome flipped him on his back and laid Bruce over his lap, his head lying on the bed and his back pressing into Jerome's thighs. Still grasping Bruce's throat, he pushed his thumb against the fresh carvings.

Bruce let out a cry of pain and squirmed weakly as Jerome brought his face low until they were inches apart. "When are you gonna get it through your head that it doesn't matter?" he asked, his voice a low animalistic growl. He pressed the nail of his thumb against the eye of the smiley face and it began to bleed. "They didn't matter, Bruce. The people at the circus didn't matter and neither did those _sheep_ last night. They're just cogs in a machine, Bruce. They go about their normal lives day by day and they contribute to what? _Nothing but the machine that is Gotham_. They work sad, miserable, unimportant jobs and then go home to their sad, miserable, unimportant lives. They mean _nothing_ to me, or anyone else. They mean nothing to each other. Just like you mean nothing to them."

Bruce struggled feebly. He didn't like being this close to Jerome. He didn't like the murderer's hand on his throat. He didn't like him digging into the fresh cuts on his chest. He released a whine and kicked his uninjured leg. "Let go," he croaked.

Jerome stared at Bruce, a wide, demented smile plastered firmly across his face as he squeezed the boy's throat. Bruce struggled for air and for freedom while Jerome dug torturously against the tender flesh on his chest. He let out a high, wheezing chuckle, and then suddenly let go. Bruce gasped for air and reached up to wipe at the tears which had formed in his eyes.

The murderer smirked and snatched his hands before he could. "Leave them," he barked out. He chuckled darkly and said it again in a lower voice, "Leave them." He slowly pushed Bruce's hands back down and smiled cruelly as he looked down at the boy's face. Tears had filled his eyes and threatened to spill, and he looked very close to being undone.

He was not anywhere close to having a breakdown, but Jerome could see the fear swimming right along with the tears in his eyes. It was gratifying. Jerome was elated.

"Now," he said quietly, "Let's bandage this up. Maybe we won't have anymore issues, hm?"

He spoke with fake sympathy and Bruce hated him for it. He despised it. He blinked his tears away and laid begrudgingly still across the psychopath's lap - considering that the only real reason he laid Bruce down like this was because Jerome knew it ate at him - while Jerome cleaned the wound. Bruce realized after two dabs of the cloth against the stinging skin that Jerome could actually see the pain on his face unlike when he dealt with the gunshot wound in Bruce's leg, and out of sheer mortification of that fact, he decided he would make no indication that it hurt.

Jerome noticed Bruce's inner struggle for self control and smirked. He was slow and deliberate as he cleaned off the wound of blood. When it was clean, he looked down at it in appreciation. "I do good work," he commented. "This'll definitely scar over nicely. I suspect you'll carry this one around the rest of your life."

Bruce gave no answer. He glared at the ceiling with a blank face. Jerome cackled quietly and shook his head. "That's not a pretty face, Bruce," he teased. Bruce set his jaw.

Jerome dabbed the carving with alcohol, which was another issue as Bruce struggled not to throw himself off Jerome's legs, and then patched it up with gauze. Bruce made to sit up and Jerome placed a hand hard on his forehead, holding him down. Bruce looked up with a glare. "What do we say, Brucie?"

"Thank you," Bruce all but spat.

Jerome giggled and let go of him. "Good boy."

Bruce sat up abruptly and scooted away from Jerome. He grabbed at his clothes and hurriedly put them back on. Jerome watched in amusement and then stood up, walked over to where he had sat the sandwich down, and then practically skipped over. He held them out with a big grin and Bruce couldn't help but stare hesitantly. Jerome blinked. "What?"

Bruce looked at the food and realization came over Jerome. He rolled his eyes. "There's nothin' in it," he said plainly. When the raven haired boy merely stared at him, Jerome gave an exasperated sound. "I wouldn't have a lot of fun with a dead pet, now would I? It's safe."

"I'm no one's pet," Bruce grumbled, but he took the plate and glass of water quickly.

Jerome rolled his eyes once more and gave a "mhmm" in response. He walked the distance over to the broken window and looked out at the bleak sky. The world looked gray. Bruce ate ravenously, and he was finished quickly. When he was finished, he watched Jerome carefully.

The ginger spun around and looked at him. For a moment, there was utter silence between the two. Both watched the other in a calculating manner. Finally, Jerome got a bright smile. "Why do cows wear bells?" he asked suddenly, giving an almost goofy grin.

Bruce's face screw up in confusion. "What?" he asked.

"Actually, the correct question is 'why?'." Jerome cocked his head to the side. "Well?"

The young billionaire stared at him but slowly asked, "Why?"

"Because their horns don't work." Jerome made a fake drum sound and erupted into obnoxious laughter. Bruce stared at him with the same blank, confused expression. "What was the name of the hair salon next to the graveyard?" he began again. Bruce stared at him questioningly and Jerome took that as his cue to say, "Curl Up And Dye." He erupted in more giggles.

"What are you doing?" Bruce asked slowly.

Jerome's laughter cut out and he looked at the younger boy. "Oh, come on, Brucie! You could at least crack a smile. You've been even broodier than usual."

"Broodier?" Bruce repeated quietly. "You're blaming me for being broody?"

"It does the mind and soul good to laugh now and then," Jerome continued as if Bruce had not spoken at all.

Bruce felt his anger flicker once more. His fists tightened and shook from fury. "You took me captive," he whispered, "shot me, carved into my skin, and murdered all of those _people_ and you expect me to be totally fine with that? To laugh at your _idiotic_ jokes?"

Jerome stared at him blankly for a moment and tilted his head. "You're really grouchy today, huh?" he asked blandly.

"I'm not _grouchy_ , I'm furious!" Bruce shouted.

The redhead gave a long huff and tilted his head. "Jokes not going to work, huh?" he asked. He got a wild grin on his face. "Then let's try something else."

Bruce didn't have time to ask him what he meant. Before he could, Jerome Valeska pounced on him like a wildcat and climbed on top of him. "Hey! What do you think you're doing?" Bruce growled and flailed around furiously while Jerome cackled and grabbed his wrists, holding them both above his head with one hand. With the other, Jerome began tickling Bruce's sides.

Bruce's eyes widened and he yelped, squirming furiously as he tried hard not to let loose a laugh. This was infuriating. Frankly, this was embarrassing. He thrashed beneath Jerome's weight in an attempt to get him off. Jerome was being relentless, though, cackling like the maniac he was while tickling the writhing boy. Bruce clenched his jaw to hold back the laughs that tried to bubble out. "J-Jerome! Get off me! Jerome!"

A few giggles came out of the very unwilling boy's mouth and he kicked his uninjured leg. "Come on, Brucie," Jerome cackled. "Give us a laugh. Let's hear it!"

He snickered as the boy let out an infuriated shout through a few hiccupped giggles. Bruce flailed miserably and yanked at his arms. "Jerome! Seriously, get off me. Get- _Get off_!" He growled.

Jerome huffed and stopped all at once, climbing off him much to Bruce's relief. The psychopath gave Bruce an annoyed look. "Geez, Brucie. You're no fun today. There's gotta be something that'll turn that frown upside down."

"You could get out," Bruce grumbled in response.

It was the wrong thing to say. Jerome got an infuriated look that quickly became dark. He smiled cruelly. "Well, _Brucie_ ," Jerome ground out, " _that_ gives me an idea."

He grabbed the empty glass and plate and skipped out, chuckling to himself. Bruce watched him go with some alarm but shook his head as the door slammed shut and he was left alone. He sighed and laid back on the bed. He hadn't liked that look on Jerome's face before he left. It was a face of anger, yes, but it was also a look of plain and simple insanity. It was cruelty. It was dark madness. And it had been aimed directly at Bruce.

He closed his eyes and rubbed his face. Bruce couldn't help but feel a little crestfallen. He hadn't heard anything from the GCPD or Alfred, and he was beginning to get worried.

 _Don't worry so much,_ he told himself, _You've been gone a day and no one knows where to even begin. Give them time. Have a little patience._

How could he have patience when he was in this Hell?

Jerome Valeska was a wild dog. He was a wild, rabid dog who was completely unpredictable and mad. It was possible to see the insanity pooling in his eyes. Bruce couldn't understand what it was he was ever trying to prove or accomplish. He was causing _chaos_ for the sake of _chaos_.

Bruce had never met anyone like Jerome and he never wanted to.

He sighed and rolled over to face the wall. He closed his eyes to block out the sadness of the room: the peeling walls, the gray light coming in from the dusty, broken window, the drip of the old sink, and the random gunshots he heard throughout the building. He wanted to go back to sleep. He wanted to block out his predicament. He just wanted to sleep.

He dozed for many minutes without being bothered before suddenly the door was thrown open so hard that the door hit the wall. Bruce nearly flew off the bed with the shock of it and rolled quickly to see what was going on. Jerome was standing in the doorway holding his arm out as if he had just come out on a stage. He had some kind of gas tank with him.

"What's that?" Bruce asked immediately. He didn't like the looks of it one bit. The tank was thin and long and was on a small dolly which Jerome had pushed into the room. A tube was attaching it to a face mask.

" _This_ , my brooding little man, is your ticket to happiness," Jerome replied happily as he rolled the tank over.

Bruce immediately scrambled to sit up and pushed himself against the wall. He didn't know what it was, but he didn't want it. He stared at Jerome in horror as he came over with it, the dark look still gleaming in Jerome's eyes. He looked rather like a monster. "Stay away from me."

Jerome let out a cackle at the words as he made it to the bed. His arm snatched out and grabbed Bruce's shoulder, yanking him to lay on his back in the middle of the bed. Bruce yelped and thrashed furiously. His eyes flickered to the tank and saw the words _Nitrous Oxide_ on the front. Laughing gas? He had laughing gas?

"Ah, Brucie. I admire your ability to think you have _any_ say in what goes on here," Jerome growled out as he went to holding the very panicked Bruce down and attempting to put the mask over his face. "You see, my boy, what you have so far failed to realize is that here, _I'm_ the boss."

He gave another loud laugh as he shoved the mask over Bruce's mouth and nose and turned the nozzle on the tank. Bruce struggled and held his breath, trying not to take in the gas. He tried to push the mask off, but Jerome was much stronger than he looked and was clearly much more aware of his physical abilities now that he'd been alive for a little while. He was laughing maniacally as he watched the struggling boy. "Don't fight it, Brucie. Take a deep breath and _relax_ a little bit. Come on, have a laugh!"

Jerome smiled madly and reached down, jabbing Bruce's new carving with his finger. It caused the younger boy to gasp in pain and take in a great deal of the gas.

Bruce felt the room spin and he blinked. He let out a hiccup of a laugh and then another, panicking as he did so and inhaling even more of the gas. He flailed, trying to get the mask off his face, but his limbs suddenly felt like rubber and he realized he couldn't stop giggling.

Jerome watched with a satisfied face and let him inhale a few more gulps before he pulled it away. The damage had already been done. Bruce was laughing uncontrollably. He couldn't stop. He felt incredibly light and relaxed, but the laughing was also making him feel sick. He was vaguely aware of Jerome standing over him, speaking to him, but his voice came as an echo and the ceiling looked like it was spinning. Bruce closed his eyes tightly, feeling tears fill his eyes and unaware if they were from his laughter or his panic.

Bruce shuddered and groaned between his tired giggles. He glanced up at Jerome and winced to see him staring down with a Cheshire smile.

"Next time, Brucie, maybe you should just humor the jokes."

Laughter rang out in the room.


	8. A Week In

**Whoa, did it take me that long to write a chapter? I am so sorry, guys. I had a bout of writer's block.**

 **This chapter is a little more of a filler chapter than anything else. It's short; I'm sorry. This chapter is sort of a prelude for what is to come. In the next chapter, Jerome's going to begin the process of breaking down Bruce's psyche. Should be interesting, right?**

 **I really love your comments, guys. For example, the person who wrote, "Can't wait for more Bruce whump!" I literally had to search what the term "whump" meant. I was not disappointed.**

 **For the record: Whole lot of whump to come.**

 **I also love opinions and ideas. Things you people want to see. Things that you don't want to see. I think someone suggested a chapter in Jerome's POV and I'm definitely going to do that, probably in the next few chapters.**

 **You can, of course, also find this story on Tumblr at prince-ofgotham, where I write and roleplay. I think by now everyone knows the warnings. This chapter isn't that bad. Violence, threats, dark themes. _Whump_. **

**Enjoy!**

Selina Kyle walked through the streets with purpose. She had places to be, and people to see. She had a billionaire to find. Bruce Wayne had been gone a week now and no one had seen or heard from him, Jerome, or any of his cultists. It was like all of them had completely _vanished_.

Selina was getting anxious. She had slipped into the GCPD twice now to see what was being done about all of this, and was disappointed to find Detective Gordon without a single lead. She knew, deep down, that she shouldn't be so hard on Jim. He was hard enough on himself over it, and it showed. Jim _cared_ about Bruce, and he had lost a lot of sleep trying to find the kid.

All of them had.

Selina slowed to a stop under a fire escape and sighed deeply. She looked around with a frown. _Where_ would Jerome have taken Bruce?

Every part of her mind screamed that the boy was dead, but something deeper in her told her that was impossible. Bruce Wayne was not dead. Bruce Wayne was alive somewhere. She didn't know in what shape he was in, but she knew he was alive. He had to be.

Her mind went to the first time they had met. Bruce had been by far the dorkiest, most naïve kid she had ever met. He didn't know anything about the world around him. He had been so innocent. Just a sad little kid who had lost his parents.

He was _more_ than that, though. Bruce was not just a sad little kid. He had taken Selina in and had been a friend to her. Bruce Wayne was her friend.

And now he was missing.

He had been missing for a whole week. No one had heard from him. No one even knew if he was alive. She had snuck into Wayne Manor to see how Alfred was doing and had found the butler in terrible shape. It was obvious Alfred was upset. The boy he had sworn to protect was missing.

Selina sat down on the fire escape and put her head in her hands. Bruce had to be alive. She knew he was. He had to be. Bruce Wayne had gotten into too many life endangering scenarios and gotten out unscathed for her to believe he was really dead. He was out there somewhere. She was going to find him. She just didn't know how yet.

She tried to remember the last words she had said to him. It had something to do with her mother, hadn't it? She had said that none of it would have happened if she had never met him. She had tried to hit him. She had tried to get him to fight her. Worst of all, he had _refused_. He would not lay a finger on her. She had stormed out. She had not went to see him again.

And now he was gone.

Selina had to find him. There was no other way to think about it. She was going to find him and she was going to murder Jerome Valeska for so much as touching him. She was going to chop up his body in little pieces so there would be no chance in reanimation. That was that. Problem solved.

She groaned and put her face in her hands. Stupid rich kid. When had she started caring so much about what happened to the little twit, anyway? She remembered a little boy, shorter than her, chasing her through the streets, determined to stay with her. When had he become this Bruce Wayne? When had they grown?

She leaned back and stared at the gray sky. It looked like it might rain. It was always trying to rain here. She wondered if Bruce was looking up at the sky, contemplating the rain. She frowned.

"I'm going to find you, Bruce," she whispered. "It's going to be okay."

* * *

"It's been a week."

"Yes."

"You know what that means, right?"

"They're not going to give up."

Bruce glared defiantly at Jerome. The ginger was standing, arms folded behind his back, staring down at him lying there on the bed. The young billionaire scowled and looked away. He focused on the sky which he saw from the window. Cloudy, gray, dreary; _It looked like it might rain_.

Jerome sighed in exasperation and tilted his head at Bruce. There was a mock pout on his face. "Brucie," he began, "as someone who has actually had access to the outside world, I can tell you. They aren't looking anymore. They've given up. Everyone thinks you're dead."

"That isn't true!" Bruce snapped. He turned his head and stared the older boy down. "You're lying to me. I know Detective Gordon better than that."

"Jimbo did his best," Jerome said in a fake soothing tone, "but he had to call it when there was no sign of you anywhere. Not a trace. All tracks covered, all evidence burned." He smiled. "Bruce Wayne is nothing but a memory now. They'll hold a memorial service soon."

Bruce shook his head slowly. He refused to believe what the maniac was telling him. He refused to believe that his friends had given up on him. His friends were coming to save him. _There were good people in Gotham_.

"If you're just here to spread lies, you can leave now," Bruce said calmly. It was the wrong thing to say. Jerome's eyes flickered with anger and a smile spread across his face that did not reach his eyes. Bruce stared back defiantly. He didn't dare look away from the ginger who was looking at him in that murderous way.

Jerome stared with that sick smile a moment longer and then perked suddenly. "Denial is the first stage of grief, Bruce. You're grieving your own death in the eyes of the public. That's understandable. However, it's not healthy to hang onto one stage for so long. You've been dead a week, kiddo. Time to move on."

"Did you not hear a word I just said?" Bruce snapped.

"Anger is the second stage. I see we're-"

"Shut up, Jerome!" Bruce shouted. "I'm not _grieving_ because _I am not dead_! I'm right here. I'm alive. And my friends are going to find me. They're going to find me, and you're going to be put away." The words came out harshly and full of defiance. Bruce sat up straighter. "You will be just another criminal in a sea of criminals. You are unimportant. You're a mere pebble."

Jerome's smile became hard again. His eye twitched. "That's where you're wrong, Brucie," he said lowly. "I'm an idealist. I'm a performer. I'm a leader. I have all the necessary skills to bring this miserable city to its knees."

"You're a joke," Bruce spat back.

"Watch it, Brucie. Your leg's steal healing. I'd hate to have to give you a spanking."

"Enough!" Bruce's eyes were gleaming with absolute fire directed at Jerome. He was sick of the man's games. He was sick of his toying and teasing. Jerome had kept him locked up in here for a week, bringing him food, cleaning his wounds, and generally being a nuisance. Sometimes, Jerome was harmless albeit annoying. He would come in and tell jokes or just chat. Other times, however, the older boy was rather ruthless. He took great pleasure in causing Bruce physical and emotional pain. Once, Bruce had snapped at Jerome for poking and prodding at him and it had earned him another harsh slap to the face, which had bruised and was still healing.

Jerome's eyes were glittering in cruel amusement. Bruce saw it in his eyes whenever the ginger looked at him. There was cruelty and madness. It gleamed with something else, too, but Bruce had never seen such an emotion, and could not pinpoint what it was.

They were both still for a moment. Finally, Bruce said, "I want you to go."

"That isn't up to you," Jerome countered.

"Go," the raven haired boy ordered.

"I will when I'm ready." The words came out strong and through gritted teeth. The two were left staring at one another for a moment, one just as stubborn as the other. Jerome grinded his teeth for a moment and then shook his head slowly. "They've given up," he whispered.

"You're a liar," Bruce responded.

More silence. They had come to some stand still. Neither was willing to back down. Neither was willing to give in to what the other one was saying. Bruce was glaring hard, mouth pursed. Jerome was all but baring teeth at the boy.

Suddenly, Jerome began to laugh.

It began as slow, deep, raspy chuckles as his eyes darkened. The sound slowly began to rise. It turned from the croaked sound to a high pitched wheezing sound. It bounced off every wall. It made Bruce dizzy. It made his head hurt.

"I just love having you around, Bruce," he whispered finally. "We're going to have fun like this forever."

"Until my friends find and save me," the boy corrected with ease.

Jerome snarled and reached forward. He grasped Bruce by his hair tightly, causing the boy to wince. "Listen, you little brat," he spat, "When I _tell_ you something, you better damn will take it as scripture. We've fooled them, Brucie. No one's coming to get you. Truth of the matter is, they probably half assed the search in the first place."

Bruce's eyes widened and he squirmed lightly to escape, but the grip was firm and with each movement, it tightened. "That's not true," he said, grunting as his hair was yanked.

"Really? Think about it." Jerome gave another pull at his hair. "You're Bruce Wayne. Sure, a lot of people know you and plenty would _love_ to have connections with you. But, do you know what they'd like more?" He yanked Bruce's head against his chest and used his other hand to stroke it in mock affection. When Bruce gave no answer, he said, "They'd like for you to disappear. I'll bet those double-crossing bastards at Wayne Enterprises are fighting tooth and nail for a spot at the top. They wanted your company, and with you out of the way, they have it. I'll bet they paid off the GCPD to shut down the search early, even. They wanted you gone and now you're gone. Their problems are solved."

Bruce was writhing now. He didn't want to hear this. He didn't want to listen to it. He groaned and thrashed in the boy's grasp. "You're lying. You're a liar. You're lying." He said it over and over again, although it got quieter and weaker. Bruce felt sick.

Jerome bent down close to his ear. "No one's going to come looking for you, Brucie. You're stuck here. You're with me now. I'm the only one who's going to take care of you." He shoved Bruce backwards onto the bed and turned, striding towards the door. He paused and stopped, turning to look at Bruce and delivering an award winning smile.

"Relax, Little Conquistador, being dead's not so bad. You can take all the power naps you want!"

He strode out, cackling.


	9. Mice and Snakes

**Heyo! Okay, this chapter is a _little_ bit longer. I got this snake idea from Safirefly, who reminded me that Jerome's mother was in fact a snake dancer and that I could use that to my advantage. To anyone with a fear of snakes, beware. There's a lot of them ahead. **

**This chapter is also written in Jerome's point of view, which was interesting to write. I hope I did him justice. After this chapter, things are going to get increasingly serious. For trigger warnings in this chapter, there's mentioning of abuse, torture, carvings, etc. Nothing is actually done to anyone today. However, in the next few chapters, the break down begins. Jerome mentioned the Five Stages of grief, which will also come eventually.**

 **I'm considering taking a small pause from writing so that I can further decide what I want to do with this story. I know the basic idea, but I really need to make a story map so I can decide when what happens. In the mean time, I love commentary and ideas, so please feel free to give me some insight. In the meantime, enjoy this chapter!**

Jerome Valeska could be a complicated individual to understand, even he would admit. His mood tended to change in whirlwinds. He had been that way since he was young. One moment, he was cheerfully demented and in the next second, he was in a psychotic rage. It was worrisome to be near Jerome when he was cheerfully demented, but God help anyone who was near during his psychotic rages.

Killing Bruce Wayne had seemed like the sensible thing to do at the time. Killing the billionaire brat had been the last thing he was going to do, and so he thought it only fair that it should be the first thing he did when he came back from the dead. However, it was later on that night when Jerome had chased him through the house of mirrors that Jerome realized something.

To kill Bruce Wayne would be a waste. Of course, it would do well to make his point. It may have even been funny to watch the masses pretend to mourn. However, there was something about Bruce that Jerome just _didn't want to kill_.

Maybe it was his defiance, or his naiveté, or his silly hope. Maybe it was his pride, or perhaps it was his hidden strength. Whatever it was, Jerome knew he didn't want the boy dead. _No_.

 _He wanted the boy bent to his every will._

Jerome had never felt love for anything. Even as a child, he had felt no love for his abusive mother or any of the people in the circus. He had felt no affection for anything. The only thing Jerome felt in akin to affection was _obsession_.

Obsession was what had clouded his mind with Bruce. He had a desperate desire to break the boy. He wanted to drag Bruce to an abyss. He wanted to shatter everything about the Wayne child and put him back together as whatever he damn well wanted. It would be _magnificent_.

The obsession was anything but healthy and not a bit beneficial to Bruce, either. It left Jerome sloppy. It left Bruce normally miserable - which suited the ginger just fine, really - and exhausted. Jerome taunted him on a daily basis. Sometimes it was mere teasing and mocking. Other times, it was violent.

Bruce was beginning to get bruises scattering on his body. Jerome took great delight in causing the boy to yelp and cry.

Call it a need to be in control of _something_ when his mother had been in control of him for so long. Hell, call it a need to be violent at something because of the same thing. Whatever. He didn't care. He enjoyed it. It brought him _amusement_.

He wanted to see the hope die in Bruce's eyes. He wanted to make the child fully believe that no one was looking for him, that no one wanted him, and that he mattered to no one. Except maybe the ginger himself. Jerome had decided to make the Wayne boy attached to Jerome would be funny. He wanted Bruce to think Jerome was the only person in the world who cared about him at all.

The boys at Arkham had called it Stockholm Syndrome.

Jerome walked through the large building casually, whistling and ignoring the sounds of guns going off now and then. The old factory was the perfect place for a hideout. It was away from Gotham City. One could still see the city across the bay but the factory was distanced enough that the sounds of the cultists' antics could not be heard. It was also far enough away that no one would bother them. No one would think to look there. No one would consider the place. It had been empty for twenty-five years.

Bruce Wayne had nowhere to go. He had nothing to rely on except for Jerome. Jerome almost pitied the boy.

After all, Jerome had never been good at taking care of pets.

Which reminded him, had those idiots gotten what he'd asked for yet?

He strode his way down to the loading dock to find a handful of his cultists packing large boxes off a truck. Jerome smirked. "They've come in?" he asked, skipping over.

"All twelve of them," responded one cultist, wheeling the box over with a dolly. Jerome smiled brightly and dashed over.

"Crowbar," he ordered, holding out his hand. A cultist placed it into his hand and he popped the box open, peering inside. He cackled and reached in, taking out a six foot long ball python.

He had ordered various types of snakes recently. None were venomous, and none were particularly dangerous. The majority of them looked as such, though. That's all that really mattered. He watched a few of the cultists step back instinctively and rolled his eyes. "Don't be a bunch of wusses, all right? She's harmless."

He grinned and held the snake up near his face, watching her coil around his arm. "Fascinating creatures, pythons. They don't kill with venom. They merely _squeeze_ the life out of their prey. I like that more, don't you? I think it's much more personal. They wrap themselves entirely around their prey's body and they tighten and tighten until there's nothing less but a limp form beneath them. It's sensual, if you think about it."

"Boss? What'd you get all these snakes for?" one asked, looking in the box. More ball pythons in this one, and there were different kinds of pythons in the other box.

Jerome hummed thoughtfully. "Oh, a few reasons. Mostly to send a message. First of all, though, I want to show these beauties to our guest upstairs." He cracked a smile, and his cultists slowly smiled with him. "I'll take them up now. In the meantime, I need one of you to get me a video camera."

Jerome carefully set the snake down into the box before taking it and the unopened box. He headed to the door, whistling as he went. He was in a particularly good mood, and he was excited to let his toy meet the new guests. He wondered how much the boy actually knew about snakes.

He supposed he would find out.

The ginger maniac climbed the stairs to the floor Bruce was on. Bruce was the only person who slept on that floor, and with reason. Jerome didn't want any of his cultists going in and _bothering_ Bruce, or otherwise doing anything to hurt the boy. Jerome might have enjoyed bringing the Wayne child pain, but he was the only one who could enjoy his pain. If any of the others touched Bruce, Jerome would most certainly have to kill them.

He opened the door to Bruce's room with his foot and stepped in.

Bruce was lying on the small bed, curled up in a ball and under the single sheet. He was shivering. Jerome imagined he was cold. After all, the room was not well insulated, the window was shattered and let in the cold autumn air, and the one sheet Bruce had was thin and did little to offer warmth.

Jerome walked closer and set the boxes down. He stared at the youth on the bed. Bruce's hair was tangled and needed to be washed. On his pale face, below his eye, Jerome could see a nasty red and purple bruise that had been left there by his own hand. If one were to pull up the sleeves of Bruce's sweater, they would see various hand prints, bruises, and now and then a carved in "HA". Bruce's body was littered with these little marks, all of which Jerome took extra care in cleaning. He wouldn't want Bruce to get some infection.

Finally, the psychopath gave a grin and bent down, taking the ball python out. He held it up close to his face. "We're gonna wake the slugabed up," he whispered, snickering before lowering the snake right onto Bruce, who didn't stir. The boy was nearly impossible to wake up.

Jerome spent the next few minutes lying snakes on top of Bruce and around him on the bed, then around on the floor. When he was fun, he looked around before chuckling lowly and looking over at the sleeping form on the bed.

"Bruce," he whispered loudly, "Wake up!"

There was no response. Jerome rolled his eyes.

"Bruce. Bruce, buddy, it's time to wake up! C'mon, big guy. You've slept long enough."

Bruce let out a small sound somewhere between a groan and a sleepy whine. Jerome stood back and watched him eagerly as he began to slowly stir. "What is it?" Bruce mumbled, his voice slurred and droned out. Jerome didn't give an answer and merely smiled and watched eagerly. Bruce hadn't noticed yet.

It happened slowly, and then all at once. Bruce's eyes slowly cracked open and then he first searched around the room for Jerome himself. When Bruce's tired eyes landed on him, Jerome waved happily. A small frown fell upon Bruce's face when he realized there was an unknown weight on him. His eyes lowered slowly to the snakes all around him, and then suddenly his eyes widened and he gasped, at first struggling to sit up and then freezing in fear.

"J-Jerome!" Bruce squeaked, breath hitching. The already pale boy seemed to whiten even more.

Jerome folded his hands behind his back. "Hey, Brucie. Sleep okay?"

Bruce's eyes were flicking to and fro in panic. The different snakes were lying over his body, some draped entirely across him, one attempting to slither beneath the sheet of Bruce's bed. One was currently crawling its way up the iron bed post, and one seemed to be contemplating curling around Bruce's arm. "Wh-What is this?"

Jerome's eyebrows furrowed and he looked around. "Well, those are snakes."

"I _know_ what they are!" Bruce snapped, but there seemed to be a lack of his usual haughtiness in his tone. It was replaced with terror.

"Well, then why'd ya ask?"

Bruce shot Jerome a glare but it didn't last long at all. He looked down nervously at the snakes. Jerome watched delightedly. He hadn't expected them to frighten Bruce quite so much. This was going better than he could have hoped for!

The young billionaire was breathing quickly. He seemed entirely frozen, as if afraid any movement would cause them all to attack. He was staring wide eyed at the snakes, and Jerome wondered if he was attempting to not scream, or if he simply couldn't get the sound out. "What? You don't like them? Aw, I thought you would, Brucie."

"Get them off me," he whispered, as if afraid to speak too loudly would be to anger them. "Jerome, get them off me. I'm serious. Get them _off_."

Jerome let out a loud laugh that caused Bruce to flinch. One of the snakes was getting a little too close to his face for comfort. Jerome watched in amusement and fascination.

"Aw, come on, Brucie. I think that one likes you."

" _Jerome_!"

The ginger smiled widely and watched the panicked boy with delight gleaming in his eyes. He loved it when he could make Bruce squirm. The young billionaire was always trying very hard to be brave. He was very full of pride and often tried to hide his fears and discomfort with big words and a haughty attitude. Seeing Bruce genuinely afraid was almost heartwarming.

The ball python had crawled its way up Bruce's chest and was beginning to reach for Bruce's face now. Bruce closed his eyes tightly and released an almost whimpered breath as one of the much larger ones also came closer, until its face was close to his chin.

"Get them off me. Get them off. Jerome, please, just get them _off_."

Jerome cackled and watched as one began to wrap around Bruce's leg. He supposed he should move them, just in case one of them actually bit him. He doubted it, and even if they did, it wasn't like they were venomous. Still, he walked over casually.

"What was that you said, Bruce? Before the demanding, I mean. What was it? Started with a 'p' I think."

Bruce gave a soft groan and tried to strain his neck away from the snakes. " _Please_! Get them off!"

"A little more, Brucie. Let's hear it."

Bruce's eyes opened and he glared furiously at Jerome before his eyes were taken over by fear and he cringed as the snake moved further up his body. "Please! Jerome, please! Get them off me. Don't let them hurt me, _please_."

Jerome grinned. The begging was gratifying, and it was something he could get used to. He walked over, whistling as he went, and casually as ever he reached down and picked up the first snake. Bruce watched with a wide eyed expression as Jerome lifted the large snake and set it aside. He began doing that with the others, and he reveled in the confused expression on Bruce's face.

The boy slowly sat up as the last few were removed from him and he looked at Jerome slowly. Jerome smiled. "What? Bruce, how much do you know about snakes?"

"Not much," Bruce replied quietly. That tone of voice was _delightful_. So small, so confused, so brimmed with embarrassment now that his initial shock was over. Jerome loved it. He loved humiliating the child and belittling him. He loved causing him discomfort.

"Well, Brucie," Jerome said, speaking in a soft tone as if explaining something to a small child. Bruce _hated_ that voice he had come to realize. So he used it often. "These are various types of pythons. The majority of them are incredibly docile creatures, really. They have no venom. They simply _squeeze_ the life out of their prey. However, they're all well fed and none of them would have any real interest in eating you. They're more curious than anything else. For example, this little gal," he paused to take out the ball python which had quickly become his favorite, "is a ball python. She's smaller than most and therefore an ideal pet for snake enthusiasts."

He held the snake close to his face and pretended to coo and baby-talk her. His gaze slowly went to Bruce, who was coming to the realization that he had never been in any real danger whatsoever. Jerome loved that look.

"For somebody who reads as much as you do, you're kind of an idiot," Jerome said casually, which caused Bruce to get an absolutely furious expression on his face. Jerome cackled and bent down, picking up the box. "I'd love to stay and chat, but I have some business to attend to." He set the ball python into the box with the other snakes and picked them both up under his arms. "I'll come around later with dinner. Adios."

He opened the door with his foot and was gone, cackling to himself.

* * *

"Captain! We just found this taped to the plaque outside!"

An officer hurriedly climbed up the stairs to where Harvey Bullock and Jim Gordon were standing. Harvey looked up, hands resting on his hips. "What is it?" he asked, sounding apprehensive.

"Some kinda DVD," the cop replied, handing the disc over.

Harvey took it and he and Jim looked over it. The disc was sitting in a clear case and written in black sharpie was the word "Enjoy!" with Jerome's cult's trademark smiley face.

Both of them looked at each other with wide eyes. This was the first that anyone had heard from Jerome or his cult since Bruce's abduction a little over a week ago. Harvey gave a quick nod and the two of them hurriedly went into the office, closing the doors behind them. "You set it up," Harvey said quietly, handing the case over to Jim who hurried over to the computer.

The two of them were behind the computer in moments, staring at the screen as Jim pulled the video up and pressed play.

The camera was being held by Jerome Valeska himself, who had it pointed at himself. He was smiling widely. " _Hello_ , Gotham City Police Department," he said in a rasped voice. "I imagine you're all wondering what's become of your favorite ex-Arkham Inmate, freshly resurrected Jerome Valeska! Worry not, Jimbo. I am very much alive."

His grin widened in the video, eyes widening along with the smile and making him look all the more insane. As Jim studied the image, he noted that Jerome was wearing one of those stereotypical movie director costumes.

"Make no mistake, I've been watching the news. Everyone's been searching for the Prince of Gotham. No one's heard of one sighting since last week. Such a shame." Jerome gave a fake pout. "There have been accusations that _I_ was the one who kidnapped Bruce Wayne. I'm here to put those rumors to rest. It's true. I took him. Guilty as charged." He laughed lowly. "Now, I'll bet you're wondering what I've done with the boy billionaire. I've created a short _film_ to explain."

He tilted his head. "So, Jimbo. Harvey. Enjoy! Sit back. Get some popcorn. Appreciate the hard work the actors and director took to bring you this film. And overall, _have a laugh_." Jerome cackled, and suddenly the image changed with a short streak of white noise.

Instead, there was an image of a small, white mouse. The little creature was scuttling around in a cage. There was a tiny crown tied onto its head. "What's that?" Harvey asked quietly.

Jim pressed his lips together in a thin line. "The Prince of Gotham," he whispered.

The top of the cage was opened and something was lowered down into it. The two cops watched in confusion as the image blurred slightly. It took a moment for them to see what it was. It was a snake.

The snake was lowering down into the cage. Jim frowned and squinted at it. The snake had something painted on it's face. It looked as though someone had used some bright lipstick to make a smile on its face. "Oh my God," Bullock murmured. "Jim. Jim!"

"Quiet," Jim said, watching as the snake set its eyes on the mouse and immediately went towards it.

They knew what was going to happen before it did. The mouse was dashing around in an attempt to escape, trying to crawl its way up the cage and failing. The python lifted slightly and then struck out, wrapping itself around the small animal. Jerome's laughter could be heard from somewhere behind the camera.

The mouse was squeezed until death and eaten.

The camera was suddenly snatched and directed at Jerome once more. "That concludes our show, kids! I hope this was a bit more _enlightening_. I've always heard using animals to explain tough situations to be a good way to do it." Jerome smiled. "Call off the searches, boys. Call off the searches, the police cars going out at all hours of the night, and the news reporters. Call it off. I'm sorry to tell you that Bruce Wayne is _no more_. Our beloved _prince,_ much like the rodent in this film, is being _crushed_ and _devoured_. Whatever remnants are merely a shell. Bruce Wayne? Bruce Wayne has been eaten."

Jerome smiled widely and got closer to the camera. "The time of meager mice is over. The time of hiding under beds and locking doors is _finished._ Now is the time for chaos. For snakes and _laughter_. That's all the time we have for now, folks, but rest assured. I'm back for good. You'll be seeing more of me soon!"

Jerome laughed, and then the film was cut.


	10. All You Have To Do Is Ask

**AUTHOR'S NOTE - IMPORTANT**

 **Hey, guys! This chapter's kind of short, but this chapter also has a very specific purpose. I mentioned earlier that my intentions were to involve a sort of Stockholm Syndrome happening with Bruce towards Jerome, and this is the first step to that. To the few people who wanted some Jerome "fluff", I guess this is sort of fluff. It's fake fluff, but it's fluff.**

 **Okay, I have a few things to say, so I'm hoping that you guys actually read these.**

 **First of all: A lot of you have mentioned Selina in the comments, and I thought it would be best if I make this note. This is _not_ a Baby Batcat fic. Don't get me wrong, I do ship it. I was even thinking about adding some Baby Batcat in an epilogue of this story. But Baby Batcat is not the point of this fic and Selina is a background character. The story's focus is completely around Bruce and Jerome, and the villain/nemesis relationship they share. So, don't expect to see a lot of Selina. She's not showing up. **

**I also wanted to mention a comment that happened earlier this morning, because it amused me and I thought it was worth noting. Shian1998 said, "Getting closer and closer to what Ramsay Bolton did to Theon Greyjoy in Game of Thrones". You see, I've never watched or read Game of Thrones. So, I spent the next few minutes on Wikipedia trying to find out exactly what happened to Theon Greyjoy. (to anyone who hasn't watched/read Game of Thrones to this point, look away from the spoiler)**

 **I _promise_ that's _not_ going to happen! **

**No one's getting castrated, guys. No one's getting a penis in the mail. I swear. That is my oath to you.**

 **There's a lot of darkness going to happen, but Bruce will be losing no appendages.**

 **Also, to Shian1998, your comment is so appreciated. I always get excited when I see your name pop up because I know there's a lengthy comment waiting for me. Thank you, dear.**

 **As I mentioned earlier, this chapter has to do with what's to come, and that is Jerome confusing and twisting Bruce's mind. He wants Bruce to think that the only person who really _wants_ him anymore is now him. He wants Bruce to think that Jerome's all he has now. He's going to do this with manipulative affection a lot in this story. **

**Now, that about does it for the author's note. I hope you all enjoy this story, I love your feedback and comments, and I can't wait to see where this goes from here.**

Bruce couldn't imagine he had ever been so lonely in his life. He had felt lonely before, but never this painfully. Now, he felt as though he were sitting down at the bottom of some deep, dark hole. He felt completely and utterly alone.

The only face he ever saw was the stretched, scarred face of Jerome Valeska. Jerome came up at least twice a day to give Bruce food and to clean his wounds, and often, to give him new ones. The ginger was incredibly unpredictable. At times, all he seemed to want to do was sit with Bruce and talk about anything that came to mind. He was bearable when he was like this. However, Jerome was incredibly bipolar and easy to anger. All Bruce had to do was say the wrong thing and there were definite consequences.

He was miserable. He would have given anything to see Alfred, or Detective Gordon, or Selina. He would have given anything at all to be home. He would have given anything at all for comfort.

Bruce stared at the ceiling with a small frown. He didn't know what day it was, or exactly how long he had been there. He knew it was somewhere in the cycle of two weeks, but he didn't know the day, or the time. He _did_ know that it was getting much colder. Bruce spent the majority of his day huddled in a ball underneath a sheet, trying to stay warm.

It was mid October. He was certain that the leaves had changed and some had perhaps fallen. It was only going to get colder. What would he do when snow began to fall?

 _No_ , he told himself. _I won't be here when it starts to snow. I'll be home, safe and sound. All of this will be behind me._

He had to keep his faith. Everything was going to be fine. Someone was going to find him. Everything was going to be all right.

Why hadn't they come yet? It had been at least two weeks. Why hadn't anyone come looking for him? Jerome's voice echoed in his mind, the words that he said so often that Bruce had to force them out at times. _No one is coming to save you_.

It was a lie. Someone was coming to save him. Jerome was a liar. Jerome was evil.

Bruce curled in tighter on himself. Miraculously, his leg was actually healing well. Bruce had read somewhere that bullet wounds could take months to heal depending on the severity. Bruce's wound had not been very severe, and he hoped it would heal soon. He needed to escape, and he couldn't do that with a bum leg.

He had every intention of getting away from Jerome Valeska. Either his friends were going to find him, or he was going to escape. Either way, he was getting away from Jerome. The longer he was here, the more Jerome could torture and humiliate him. Frankly, Bruce didn't know how much more his pride and sanity could take the abuse.

The door opened and he closed his eyes. Sometimes, if he pretended he was asleep, Jerome would leave him be. It was rare, but now and then Jerome would get distracted by just examining him and would seemingly forget whatever it was he had came there for.

He couldn't help but flinch slightly when the door swung shut. He heard the slow laughter, the rasped "Ha - Ha - Ha" bouncing off the walls. Bruce shuddered. "I know you're awake, Brucie," Jerome sang out.

"I was trying to sleep," Bruce muttered.

"You're always trying to sleep," Jerome replied in a mutter. He sounded annoyed already, and Bruce feared the worse. He didn't dare look at Jerome out of fear it would somehow set the ginger maniac on him. He kept his eyes closed. Jerome had gone quiet. "What's the matter, Brucie?"

He gave no answer. In reality, Bruce was _tired_. All his energy had been zapped out of him. He mostly just laid on the bed. He made a point to get up and move as much as he could, but he had no energy for any of that. It worried him. He needed to get a hold of himself. This was just depression. He needed to be stronger than this.

He wasn't expecting to feel a hand touch his hair.

Bruce's eyes opened wide and he jerked his head back slightly. He stared up at Jerome in confusion and irritation. He didn't like Jerome in his personal space. The maniac didn't notice or didn't care, because he placed his hand back in the raven locks in what Bruce could only assume was some mock form of affection. "What are you _doing_?"

"You could use a shower, Bruce," Jerome commented, his fingers gently brushing through the dark hair. Bruce frowned and moved his head back further, but Jerome's hand followed him. "And some clean clothes."

"I haven't exactly gotten to leave a lot," Bruce muttered irritably. The only other place he went to was the restroom right across the hall. This was the only other room Bruce was allowed to go to. Jerome had once told him that the hallways had cameras, and to try to leave would be futile and stupid.

Jerome tutted. "Don't get irritable. Why don't we hobble you down to the showers? Let you get cleaned up. I can get you some clean clothes."

Bruce froze. Jerome had _never_ offered him anything except for the necessities of life, and he did that much with a certain amount of mockery. What was the ginger doing?

He stared up at Jerome questioningly. The ginger had a mask of affection in his eyes. Bruce knew it was false. He knew it was just some way to mock him. Nothing about Jerome was _real_. He was so convincing, though, his eyes seemingly soft. Bruce continued to frown in that worried way. Jerome smiled in a slightly crazed manner. "Come on, Brucie. Stand up for me."

He helped the dark haired boy to stand. Bruce stumbled slightly but was held up by Jerome, who was watching him with slightly widened eyes. Bruce couldn't place what sort of face Jerome was making. His mouth was pressed in a slightly thin line and his eyes were large and glittering, making him look almost angry but also fascinated. Bruce didn't understand. He didn't understand _obsession_.

Jerome led him to the door and opened it, humming to himself as he slowly walked Bruce down the hall. Bruce was limping, wincing now and then, but he was managing to walk with the help. He could feel Jerome's eyes on him as they went, that same wide eyed look of Jerome's piercing the side of his head. He frowned.

"Why are you doing this?" Bruce asked quietly.

"Well, because you can't walk without assistance," Jerome answered easily.

"Not that," Bruce snapped. His voice was quiet, though, and lacked the usual anger. " _This_. Why are you letting me get cleaned up? Why are you being kind?"

Jerome chuckled lowly. "I _told_ you, didn't I, Brucie? They all think you're dead, and even if they didn't, no one is bothering to look for you. I'm the only one who _wants_ you now. I'm the only one who's going to take care of you."

"That isn't true," Bruce muttered.

"Isn't it?" Jerome raised an eyebrow. "It's been two weeks. Don't you think if someone was going to come, they would have by now?"

Bruce frowned and looked away. He wouldn't admit it, but Jerome made a good point. Why hadn't someone come for him yet? Surely it wasn't so hard to find someone like Jerome? Surely it wasn't so hard to find Jerome's cult? Why hadn't Detective Gordon come for him? Why hadn't Alfred? Why hadn't anyone?

"They're going to come," he mumbled finally. "They're going to come."

"There are no heroes in Gotham, kiddo," Jerome replied with a little sigh. He opened the door to a long shower room. "Sit down here." He pulled over a chair. Bruce sat down slowly. Jerome stuck his hands into the deep pockets of his coat. "You know the drill, Brucie. Jeans off. I'm just going to wrap that wound up in plastic so it won't get wet."

Bruce stared at him a moment before biting the inside of his jaw and doing as told, knowing Jerome was not above doing it for him. He pushed his jeans down his legs and kicked them off. Settling back down, he watched as Jerome knelt down while humming some tune. The ginger took Bruce's bare leg and wrapped it up in the plastic. He tightened and secured it.

"There we go," Jerome muttered, looking up at Bruce and giving a big grin. "Now, nothin' to worry about." He stood up and put his hands on his hips, staring at Bruce expectantly.

Bruce stared at him and then suddenly his eyes widened. "Jerome, _no_ ," he stressed.

The ginger clicked his tongue. "Yeah, all right," he said, waving his arm at Bruce dismissively. He pointed over to a rack of towels. "You can leave your clothes over there so they don't get wet. There's shampoo, soap, that sort of thing just there in the stall. You can take the chair in there if you need to."

Jerome headed out, humming to himself. "I'll come check on you in a minute."

Bruce watched the ginger disappear and frowned before slowly stripping off his clothes. He stood up, limping and pulling the chair with him, leaning against it when he needed to. He stepped into the large stall that reminded him of a locker room more than anything else. He stayed standing as much as he could, washing off dirt and grime that little trips to the sink in his room couldn't take off. He washed his hair, which had become tangled and dirty over the span of two weeks. The water was warm and much appreciated.

Bruce's mind was spinning, though. He didn't understand. Just yesterday, Jerome was bent over him, excitedly showing him footage of a building of hostages Jerome's cult had captured and then blown up and smacking him around the face when Bruce tried to avoid watching. Now he was letting Bruce bathe and being careful with him? Bruce couldn't understand, and that upset him more than anything.

After he had showered, he came out of the stall and walked along the wall until he got to the rack of towels where his clothes were lying as well. He grabbed a towel and pressed his face into it, running it over his head. He was still drying himself off when the door swung open and Jerome came striding in, a bundle of clothes in his hands. Bruce yelped at the sudden intrusion and pulled the towel around his waist quickly. He glared at Jerome.

The ginger laughed. "My bad."

The casual "apology" did little to relieve Bruce's apprehension and it showed on the raven haired boy's face. Jerome merely chuckled and held out a pile of clean clothes. He strode over casually and dropped them by the rack. "Get dressed, Brucie."

He walked out calmly, but Bruce could hear that he made it no farther than the door. He was just waiting on Bruce. Sighing, the dark haired boy bent and picked up the discarded clothes. He dressed slowly in the pair of boxers, then pulled on the black sweatpants and finally the long sleeved shirt. They were clean and they were warm.

He limped out slowly, taking the old clothes with him. Jerome was leaned on a wall, whistling and looking around impatiently. He saw Bruce and pushed himself off the wall, going to help him walk. "There. That's better, eh?"

He led Bruce back to the small room designated as his bedroom and found that the sheets were clean. The long dried bloodstains that had accumulated on the bed were gone. Jerome helped Bruce to sit and looked at him, giving a whistle. "You're real out of shape, aren't you, big guy?"

Bruce knew he must have looked white as a ghost. He knew he was trembling somewhat. He had tried to keep himself moving in the past two weeks, but the longer he was here, the more depressed he became and the less he wanted to move. It was also freezing in the room, and his damp hair didn't help that matter.

Jerome knew exactly what the issue was, but he only smiled.

"Lie down, kiddo."

He pushed Bruce backwards lightly and the young billionaire fell onto his back. Jerome sat down on the bed and looked down at him, tilting his head to the side. There was that _look_ again.

"What are you doing?"

Jerome gave an amused look. "Well, I'm keeping you company. Don't you get lonely when you're up here by yourself?"

"Not particularly." That was a lie. He was incredibly lonely. However, Jerome's company was not a wanted one. It was a confusing one. Bruce didn't like being confused. Jerome was touching his hair again, and Bruce was resisting the urge to ask him why or to shove his hand away. He was afraid doing so would upset Jerome. An upset Jerome was a violent one. This odd form of mock affection was at least docile.

"No, but you do get cold," Jerome commented.

Bruce stiffened. He spared a glance up at Jerome and saw that the ginger was watching him with a demented gaze. He didn't know where this was going, but he doubted he would like it. He lowered his gaze back to the wall. "It's in the middle of October," he replied in a mumble.

Jerome hummed in response, fingers brushing through Bruce's hair.

"You could do with more blankets, couldn't you, Bruce?" Jerome asked. His voice was conversational, and yet it was somehow almost _stern_. Bruce didn't like it.

He looked up at Jerome and stared at him. He didn't want to answer in the obvious way. He was afraid it would be Jerome simply waving it in front of his face only to pull it away. However, he also didn't want to stubbornly answer with no. He was afraid Jerome would shrug it off and forget the whole thing. He merely stared apprehensively.

Jerome watched with a faint grin. "Would you like more blankets, Bruce?" he asked. He raised both eyebrows, waiting expectantly.

Bruce bit his lip. How did he answer? Finally, he gave the honest answer. "Yes."

Jerome's smile widened disturbingly. He smoothed down Bruce's hair, which was curling due to its dampness. "Well, all you have to do is ask," he said calmly.

The young billionaire stared wide eyed. Was Jerome serious?

"W-What?"

The psychopath grinned. "I want you to ask me, Bruce. You can do that, can't you?"

Bruce sat up slightly, but Jerome easily pushed him back down, forcing him to lie down. He watched, waiting patiently. "Well, Bruce?"

Bruce pursed his lips with a small frown. He was beginning to understand now. Jerome wanted Bruce to ask for them because Jerome wanted Bruce to understand that _Jerome_ was the one in charge. Jerome was "the boss" and nothing happened without Jerome's say-so. Bruce stared at him, a small, upset frown on his face.

Jerome saw it and offered a mocking pout. "Come on, Brucie. Let's hear it. If you want something, you have to ask for it. That's just common knowledge."

Bruce looked away a moment, somewhat glaring at the ceiling, before he slowly let his eyes go to the very expectant looking Jerome. He released a slow sigh and, swallowing his pride, spoke the words in a quiet but clear voice, "May I please have another blanket?"

Jerome's Cheshire smile widened and Bruce shuddered slightly. He nodded his head and smoothed back the dark hair once more, petting Bruce as though he were some beloved animal. Bruce hated that. "Of course you can, Brucie," he answered quietly. "We can't have you freezing to death up here." He stood up with a slight smirk. He headed for the door, pausing to look back at him. "I told ya being dead wouldn't be so terrible."

* * *

Later that night, Bruce laid awake in bed, curled up under the warm blankets Jerome had given him to sleep under. He was not cold now. The blankets were soft and inviting, and made sleep much easier to fall into, but Bruce still stayed awake, staring ahead. His face was half buried in the blankets.

His mind was on the redhead. He didn't understand Jerome. How could the man be so ready to cause him harm in one second, and then in the next, be willing to accommodate him? Why was Jerome always trying something new? He didn't understand it. He didn't like it.

It was much nicer than Jerome's violent tendencies, however. Bruce knew it was wrong to think about, but the thought had stuck in his mind and would not go away. If only Jerome would _stay_ that way.

Bruce sighed softly and buried deeper in the blankets that he resented.

It didn't matter now. He needed to sleep. He needed to prepare for tomorrow.


	11. Food Strike

**Author's Note:**

 **Chapter Eleven is _done_! This chapter goes into parallels between Jim and Bruce, but it also shows Jerome's hold on Bruce getting stronger and stronger. It was definitely interesting to write. **

**There's not much else to say. I believe we only have a few more chapters to go before the end of Gotham Has No Heroes. This is the first project I've done in awhile. It's also the first _finished_ story I'll have written in awhile. That's pretty crazy. **

**I'd also like to give a shout out to Lunita, for that beautiful comment that was left. That really spurred me on to write this chapter. You and I both have a fascination for reading Stockholm fics and seeing the change as it takes place. I think - or at least hope - you'll like this chapter.**

 **Warnings: This chapter in particular talks about abuse, suicidal thoughts, and involves some force feeding.**

 **Your comments and feedback are always appreciated. You can also find this story on Tumblr at prince-ofgotham, where I take requests for one shots. Enjoy!**

Somehow, Jerome's "documentary" managed to get on every television in Gotham. Everyone in the city had seen the snake and mouse video at least once, and on some channels, it replaced commercials. The GCPD worked to get the video off the air, but there seemed to be no stopping it. It continuously came back, and eventually, every person had seen the supposed _fate_ of Bruce Wayne.

Jim Gordon had hardly slept since Bruce's disappearance. His nerves were shot, his ability to function was dwindling, and he looked like a ghostly shell of his former self. He had searched high and low in the city. Jerome was nowhere to be found, and neither was Bruce Wayne.

He sat in a café, Harvey Bullock across from him. Harvey was watching him carefully. He knew that the Wayne kid meant a lot to Jim. Jim had known Bruce since the deaths of his parents and had worked painstakingly hard on the Wayne Case. He had refused to let it go when everyone else wanted to leave it behind. He had really gotten attached to Bruce. In a way, Harvey figured that Jim thought of the kid as his responsibility.

"Jim? Jim, you gotta eat something."

The words seemed to snap Gordon out of whatever reverie he was in. His eyes snapped to attention and he stared at Harvey. "Hm? Oh." He shook his head slightly. "I'm not hungry."

Harvey looked over Jim's face. Hollow cheeks, sunken face: Jim looked like a ghoul. "Listen, Jim," he said quietly, "I know you're worried about the kid, but starving yourself won't bring him home. You need your strength, buddy."

"It's been a month, Harvey." Jim spoke so abruptly that it surprised his partner. He stared at Harvey as if searching for some answer in his face. "He's been gone a month. How has he been gone a month? How has no one seen or heard from him in a month? How has _Jerome_ been missing for a month? They're gone without a trace, and what? I'm running out of ideas, Harvey."

Harvey sighed. "Look, we're going to find him. We're not going to give up. But in the meantime, you can't starve yourself. You need your strength. You need to be at your best."

Jim frowned. He knew Harvey was right. He must have looked horrible. He hardly left the GCPD, and when he did it was to chase leads searching for Bruce. When was the last time he had gotten a good night's rest? When was the last time he had eaten an actual meal or sat down and rested? When was the last time he hadn't been working?

He had yet to hear word from Penguin. Selina only came to him when he was out on the streets, and he had a difficult time keeping Alfred out of jail himself with his _methods_ of trying to get information. He was running out of plans. He was running out of time. That damnable video kept showing up on the television.

"He's out there somewhere, Harvey," he said finally. His voice was low and upset. "That kid's out there somewhere with Jerome Valeska. He's alive. I know he is. I just don't know _where_."

Harvey listened with a small frown. He would never say it in front of Jim, but he had his doubts. After all, Jerome had initially wanted to kill Bruce. Why would he keep him for a month without doing just that? It seemed improbable that Bruce Wayne was still alive. If anything, his body was probably long gone in the bay or on display in some horrid, gruesome manner.

He refused to say that to Jim, though. He knew it would _break_ his partner in ways that just might not be able to be mended.

"We'll find him, Jim. I swear, we will find him. But you gotta keep your strength up, pal. Eat something. Anything." He pushed the untouched plate with the burger and fries on it closer to Jim. Jim looked at him tiredly and Harvey pursed his lips. "You're useless to Bruce like this and you know it. Look at you. You haven't slept, you haven't eaten. Hell, have you even had a shower? You look terrible, Jim. And I say that in the kindest way possible."

Jim stared a moment longer before sighing deeply and pulling the plate to him, beginning to eat. Harvey secretly gave a relieved sigh and shook his head a little. "We should visit Alfred," Jim muttered, glancing at him. "I want to see how he's holding up."

"Yeah. All right. Just eat first, okay?"

* * *

Bruce laid curled up on the bed, back to the door. He had stopped eating three days ago. Jerome had brought him food and he had politely declined, and when Jerome had tried to insist and Bruce had refused, Jerome had gotten angry and left in a rage. Later that day, Jerome tried again and Bruce denied again, and that had been going on for some time now.

He was unaware of exactly how long he had been in the room, but he was certain that it had been at least a month. He had seen nothing but gray walls and Jerome's face. Jerome, who generally had moods that varied between all out rage and almost what seemed like _sympathy_ , visited often. These visits ranged. Bruce had noticed the strangest tendency in the red haired boy. He had the ability to speak the most _awful_ of words in the _kindest_ of tones. It often unsettled and confused Bruce.

For example, a little less than a week ago, Bruce had woken in tears from nightmares. His screaming had been so loud that the cultists could hear, and as consequence, so could Jerome. Bruce had been sobbing when the door had opened and a mildly curious Jerome had come in. In truth, Jerome had come furiously, having worked himself up to believe that one of the cultists had found their way upstairs to torment _his_ toy. When he found Bruce alone, he had become mildly curious.

Jerome had walked over slowly. "Brucie?"

Bruce had been curled into a ball, weeping. He was not unaccustomed to nightmares. He had been having nightmares since the deaths of his parents. He often saw them in his dreams and heard the sounds of gunshots. This time had been different. This time had also been filled with circuses of horror and people being sacrificed. This time had involved Bruce himself falling into a tank of smiling piranhas.

"Alfred!" Bruce had shouted. "Alfred!" He had been sobbing, screaming the butler's name.

Jerome had taken an opportunity.

"Shh, hush, kiddo," he had whispered, sitting on the bed and pulling Bruce into his chest. Bruce had screamed and thrashed for a moment but found himself too weak to do much. He had slumped in Jerome's grasp and wept while Jerome cradled him to his chest, leaning his back against the wall. "It's all right. I've got ya now."

Bruce had sobbed. "Alfred," he cried out meekly, and then again in a pleading voice.

Jerome had smiled. "Alfred's not comin', Brucie," he had whispered. "Alfred doesn't take care of you anymore. I do. I'm here now." He had spoken it so softly, holding Bruce's head against his chest and running his fingers through the dark hair. Still, the words had elicited a small sob from Bruce, who tried to push away from him once more before giving up again when Jerome didn't let up.

"Let me go," Bruce had murmured, whimpering quietly. He had been tired and groggy, and it had made him dazed. "Let go of me. Let me go!"

"Ah, ah, ah," Jerome had murmured, holding him tighter until Bruce couldn't squirm anymore. He continued to speak in that soft voice as he said, "Alfred's not coming, Brucie. He's not here, and he's not going to be here. He thinks you're dead. He doesn't _care_ enough about you to search for you."

The words had upset Bruce even more, and Jerome had pressed the boy's face into his chest while he cried. The words had stung despite the gentle tone they had come out in. Bruce had been stuck, though, as Jerome had refused to let him go. Jerome had held him until Bruce had finally slipped back into sleep out of exhaustion, and when he woke that morning, the ginger was gone.

Bruce thought about that night now as he stared at the ceiling. He frowned slightly and reached up to his chest, rubbing the scarred smiley face. It was one of the many things that had been imprinted onto his body. Jerome seemed to like marking on his body. Bruce thought it to be a control tactic.

The door opened and Bruce knew immediately it was Jerome. He didn't turn to look, but he knew the sound of Jerome's footsteps. He knew the sometimes ragged breath that came out of him. Bruce blamed it on Galavan stabbing him in the neck.

"Brucie," he sang out quietly.

Bruce responded by curling up tighter, and he heard Jerome sigh. He heard Jerome set something down and immediately knew it was a tray of food. He heard the footsteps come closer until they were right behind Bruce. "You gonna lay there with your back to me all day?" he asked.

"I might," Bruce replied quietly. It caused Jerome to giggle softly and Bruce frowned.

"Nice try. Come on, big guy." He grasped Bruce's shoulders and forced him to turn around much to Bruce's annoyance. "You gonna eat for me today?"

"Not hungry."

He kept his eyes closed, but he still felt the dip in the small bed when Jerome sat down. He pursed his lips and sighed deeply. Hesitantly, he opened his eyes and peered up at Jerome. The redhead was watching him expectantly, and Bruce found that he couldn't look at him for long. "I'm not."

"You haven't eaten in days, kiddo," Jerome said matter-of-factly. His eyebrows rose, and Bruce's frown deepened. Jerome had a knack for pretending to sound stern because he knew it annoyed Bruce. The boy did not like to be belittled, and as consequence, Jerome did it often.

"I haven't been hungry in days," Bruce replied. He looked terrible. He was clean since Jerome had started sending him to the showers on a relatively regular basis, but he was thin and paler than usual. He looked sickly. The truth of the matter was that Bruce seemed to be caring less and less the longer he was there. He moved less and less. He hardly fought Jerome's attacks off anymore. He had begun to lose hope that anyone was coming at all. It had finally fallen to not eating.

Jerome clicked his tongue. "You can't go on like this, Brucie," he said in that false voice, soft and gentle. "You have to eat. You have to take care of yourself."

Bruce felt a spark of anger. "Why?" he said harshly. He stared up at Jerome with an annoyed look. "I don't _do_ anything, other than lie up here and get used as a punching bag half the time and a pet the other half. You've kept me up here a month. I want to go _home._ "

Jerome's hand snapped forward and grabbed Bruce's face. The boy jumped and flinched back, but Jerome held too tightly for Bruce to escape. He gripped Bruce's jaw and pulled him closer. "When are you going to get it through your head that _this_ is home? Huh?" he said quietly, his voice frustrated. "Gotham has forgotten all about Bruce Wayne. It would be smart for Bruce Wayne to do the same about it." He raised an eyebrow.

Bruce growled softly. "Then what's the point?" he snapped. He sat up slightly despite the hand still grasping his face. "I sit up here all day. My entire existence is _pointless._ Why should I take care of myself?" Angry tears began to fill his eyes, much to his irritation. He reached up to wipe them away.

The redhead watched wide eyed and then slowly tilted his head in a demented, almost animalistic manner. "If you're not going to take care of yourself," he said in a slow manner, "I'll take care of you myself. You understand? I'll just have to do it for you." He smiled, eyes glittering with mischief and some darkness as he let go of Bruce suddenly and walked over to the tray which seemed to have a bowl of soup on it. Jerome picked it up and walked back over, humming to himself.

Bruce realized what was going on a little too late, and didn't have time to try and escape when Jerome set the bowl to the side and grabbed Bruce. The ginger sat on the bed, pulling Bruce's back against his chest and looping an arm around him so he couldn't get free.

"Jerome! Jerome, let go of me. I don't want- Let me up!"

The raven haired boy struggled weakly and attempted to pry Jerome's arm loose, which caused Jerome to let out a cackle. "Sit still, Brucie," he murmured, picking up the bowl with his free hand. "This is hot, and if you spill it on me, I'll cut off an ear." He giggled as he said it, and Bruce shuddered as his struggling became meek squirming.

"Jerome, _please,_ " Bruce said in a groan. He whined softly and tried to wiggle his way under the arm holding him against Jerome's chest to no avail. When Jerome brought a spoonful of the soup to his mouth, Bruce grimaced and turned away. "I don't want anything."

"No, but this is what you _need_ ," Jerome said quietly, close to Bruce's ear. "And that's exactly what I'm going to give you, Brucie: What you need."

Something about the words struck a cord in Bruce. Tears welled up in his eyes and he choked out a small cry. He kicked weakly, turning his face farther to the side. The tears escaped his eyes and Jerome tutted. "So emotional, Brucie," he muttered. The arm looped around Bruce bent slightly at the elbow so Jerome could continue to hold him down while grabbing his face once more and turning it to face forward. "You show your emotions so completely. You can make your face as stoic as you like, but your eyes always give you away. You could be under a mask and I'd still recognize you by your eyes." Jerome hummed and paused to listen to the almost completely unintelligible sobs and pleas escape Bruce's mouth. "You're so emotional because you're tired, Bruce," he mumbled. He made his voice sound pouty. "You're tired and sick and sad, and it's making you cry at the drop of a hat. Isn't that right?"

He placed his chin on the top of Bruce's head as Bruce gave another cry. Jerome was right and he hated it. He was so easy to get worked up. He could cry at any given notice. He could just break down and sob. That was what he was doing now.

"I don't want to be here," he said tearfully, sobbing quietly despite Jerome's gentle shushing that almost sounded harsh to Bruce. "Please, I don't want to be here anymore. If you're not going to let me go, just kill me. I don't want to be here."

Jerome chuckled tightened his arm around Bruce. "I don't want to _kill you_ , Brucie," he cooed, giggling when the words caused a small whimper to escape the distraught boy. "I want to teach you. Gotham is a corrupted city. There are no heroes in Gotham."

"You're wrong," Bruce muttered meekly. He tried to turn his face away again, but Jerome's hand held him tight. "There are good people in Gotham."

"You think so, Little Conquistador?" Jerome murmured, using the pet name he seemed to use often now. "Open up."

He had a spoonful of the soup in his hand and was holding it out to Bruce's face. The young billionaire winced and pursed his mouth tightly, again trying to turn away. Jerome held his face forward and gave a deep sigh, tightening his fingers on Bruce's jaw tightly until Bruce was sure he would have small fingerprint bruises on his face. The grip forced Bruce's mouth open and Jerome shoved the spoonful into his mouth. He pulled the empty spoon back and then quickly covered Bruce's mouth so he couldn't spit it out. "Swallow."

Bruce swallowed the bite without meaning to and cringed. He wriggled in Jerome's arms and the ginger laughed in a demented manner. "Oh, hold still!"

He spooned out another spoonful and held it out to Bruce's mouth. "Open," he ordered, and rolled his eyes when again Bruce clenched his mouth shut. He squeezed Bruce's mouth again, shoved the spoonful in, and then covered Bruce's mouth until he swallowed it.

"Jerome, please," Bruce whined softly. There were still tears slipping down his face. He was practically in the other boy's lap and he could hardly move. He was incredibly frustrated and miserable. He was emotional. He hadn't felt so miserable since just after his parents had died. "I don't want it. Please."

Jerome brought another spoonful up, this time hushing Bruce quietly. "I know, kiddo," he said soothingly. "You have to eat, though. I can't let you go and starve yourself to death." He grasped Bruce's face but merely held it facing forward. He didn't squeeze this time. "This is what you _need_. Now, open up."

Bruce's mouth quivered and fresh tears slipped down his face. He shut his eyes tightly, suddenly feeling infuriated, dismayed, and _humiliated_. He was being belittled, and both of them knew it. Bruce hated it. He hated being treated this way. Jerome's finger tapped his cheek in warning, silently telling him to do as he was told, and Bruce slowly opened his mouth despite his fury and misery.

The ginger chuckled. "There. What a good boy."

Bruce was not allowed to move until the soup was gone. He felt sick, and by the time it was over he had worn himself out from tears and anger. Jerome set the empty bowl aside but kept his grip firmly around Bruce's torso. Bruce didn't even bother trying to get out of the grip now.

Jerome ran his fingers through Bruce's hair, leaning back. Bruce didn't have to turn around to know that he had that look on his face again. Wide eyed, glittering with fascination and almost anger all at once, mouth pressed in a thin line. Bruce was beginning to wonder about the expression Jerome so often made.

"I'm never going to let you go, Bruce," he murmured suddenly. Bruce shuddered at the words. His tears had stopped and were now resting on his cheeks which were red. He fidgeted slightly. "You're much too fun. I like having you around." Bruce felt him cock his head. He didn't dare look up at Jerome. He didn't dare move, too afraid to do so would annoy him.

"One of these days," Jerome continued, "I'm gonna rule this city." He placed his chin on the top of Bruce's head and hummed thoughtfully. "You may be the prince of Gotham," Jerome chuckled, "but I'll be the king. It'll be amazing."

Bruce could hear madness in Jerome's voice. He shuddered.

"This whole city - This whole world will know who _I_ am," Jerome whispered. His voice sounded faraway and dreamy in the most insane of ways. "When I was a kid," he murmured, "and my mom would beat the crap outta me, she'd always tell me I wasn't going to amount to anything. I was going to be a circus _freak_ for the rest of my life. She'd beat me and tell me just how worthless she thought I was." His grip tightened until Bruce could scarcely breathe. He found the grip to be almost possessive, and he didn't like it at all. "She was wrong, though. I came back to life. I'm a _god_. I'm a prophet. I'm going to throw this city into destruction and chaos. It's like dear old dad said. My legacy will be death and madness."

He snickered in delight and Bruce's frown deepened. Suddenly, every carving and bruise seemed to hurt as if they were new. Each infliction felt like a burning brand. Jerome's madness was apparent in that moment, and he felt sick due to the fact.

"No," Jerome mumbled, shaking his head. "I'll never let you go. I've never had a pet _anything_ before. Having a pet _billionaire_ is a good place to start."

It had gotten dark some time during the feeding, and now the only light came from a flickering, orange street light somewhere outside. Bruce felt Jerome's tight grip like the darkness in the room, encircling him and suffocating him. The scarred smiley face on his chest suddenly burned and ached. He felt like _marked property_ , and he didn't think he had felt so disgusted with himself in awhile. Jerome was running his fingers through Bruce's hair in an affectionate manner. Bruce closed his eyes to the feeling, letting out a shuddery breath. He had never felt so trapped. He didn't see an end in sight. He didn't see an escape.

He felt himself growing tired under the hand in his hair. Jerome's arms were like iron and he saw no intentions for the redhead to let go of him. He sighed and let himself sink down into darkness, and silently hoped that Jerome was kidding. He silently hoped that tonight, while he slept, Jerome would slit his throat.


	12. Giving In

**Hey, everyone! I am _soooo_ sorry this took so long. I started college. It's been crazy. This chapter is (kind of) long, so hopefully, that sort of makes up for it. I only have one or two chapters left of this story. I'm considering writing another Bruce and Jerome story, but in a dark romantic lighting. Opinions? **

**WARNING: This chapter involves manipulation, talk of abuse, torture, beating with a belt, Stockholm Syndrome, and general dark themes. This one gets pretty gruesome, guys. Enter at your own risk.**

 **As always, I thank each and every one of you for your support and your comments. I love them so much. I am once again sorry this took so long. Let me know what you think of the chapter. Have a great day, and be safe!**

Bruce stared at the small, grimy mirror in the shower room. He was alone, but knew Jerome was on his way with fresh clothes for him to wear. He was already dried off and the towel was wrapped around his waist to ensure Jerome couldn't come in and catch him off guard again. His hands were leaned up on the small sink and he was leaned forward slightly, eyes seemingly staring off far away, but he was focused on the reflection in the mirror.

His face was bruised. That was what he noticed first. There were small, fingerprint bruises all along his jaw where Jerome had grabbed him and squeezed his face on numerous occasions. There was a much larger bruise on his cheek where Jerome had slapped him a little too hard, and one just under his eye where the ginger had actually punched him; It was healing now, and becoming the disgusting yellowish color bruises often take on before they fade. His busted lip was almost healed completely. His chest was battered as well. The smiley face scar was ugly and jagged. There were more along his body, random HA's and other graffiti. Apart from the obvious bruises on his face, Bruce simply looked unhealthy. His face was sunken and tired looking. His eyes were droopy. He looked like a walking corpse.

Bruce didn't understand. Why did Jerome keep hitting him? Why did Jerome keep hurting him? Bruce was _trying_ to do what the ginger wanted. A week ago, it had dawned on him that Jerome had to be hitting him for some reason. Jerome had said that he was going to take care of him and give him what he needed. Jerome had promised to give Bruce what he _needed_. So why was he hurting him? What had Bruce done to deserve it? Surely he must have done something.

It had to be that Bruce was doing something wrong. If Jerome had promised to give Bruce what he needed, and Jerome was hurting him, then that must have been what Bruce needed. He didn't know why, though. He was trying so hard to be good.

The door opened and Jerome came barging in without so much as a knock. He had a pile of clothes in hand which he walked over and dropped down on the floor. "Get dressed," Jerome said shortly.

Bruce tried not to flinch. Jerome was in a particularly bad mood today, and he didn't know why. He didn't even bother with the majority of his theatrics as usual. He merely snapped orders at Bruce and delivered harsh words and the threat of harsher blows if he didn't do as told immediately. Bruce was incredibly frightened of him when he was like this.

The raven haired boy paused and looked at Jerome slowly, waiting for him to leave the room or at least hoping he would. He didn't think it was a good idea to ask him to, so he merely stared, but by the fiery glare he was receiving, he doubted privacy was of great concern at the moment.

He turned his back instead and dropped the towel.

Bruce caught a glimpse of his legs in the mirror before he hastily retrieved the boxers on the floor. There were some marks there, as well. Some were carvings and others looked as though he'd been hit with something. That something ranged from a belt to a piece of pipe.

He pulled the boxers on quickly and grabbed the dark gray sweat pants on the floor. He pulled them on and then grabbed the sweatshirt which was black. He pulled on a pair of long socks and then slowly looked at Jerome as he finished.

The ginger was watching him closely now. Bruce shuddered at the look. He understood it to be more than just fascination. His eyes were wide and glittering in a demented manner, head cocked to the side. His eyes were filled with an array of what seemed like simple emotions: anger, curiosity, thoughtfulness, and perhaps desire. Bruce saw the expression more and more.

Jerome stared at him a moment longer and then suddenly gave a soft, airy sigh. "What's with the long face, Brucie?" he said finally.

Bruce hesitated. On any normal occasion, he would have lifted his chin and spoke calmly and confidently. He was not calm or confident, though. He was tired, hurt, and frightened. He lowered his head slightly in a way that was a little too submissive for his own tastes. "I'm just tired," he said meekly.

Jerome took a few steps forward slowly. Bruce eyed the floor, waiting with bated breath for the ginger to say something. "Tired," Jerome repeated quietly. He stood directly in front of Bruce and tilted his head to the side.

"Jerome, please." The words came out in a quiet and weak voice. Bruce couldn't stand to look at him. He was afraid that if he did, Jerome would be set off.

He heard the psychopath click his tongue and then felt Jerome's hand reach up and snatch Bruce's chin. He lifted Bruce's head slightly to peer into his eyes. "You're scared, Bruce," he whispered with mock sympathy. It was mock sympathy, wasn't it? It had to be. Was it real?

Bruce felt a sob get caught in his throat. He made a small strangled sound and swallowed thickly. "I'm not," he defended quietly. It was a lie.

"You're a shitty liar, too," Jerome continued in that same sweet voice. Now Bruce _knew_ he was mocking him. The young billionaire frowned and looked away. Jerome gave a laugh and pulled on Bruce's chin, forcing him to look at him once more. "Don't get mad. What are you so scared of, hmm?"

Bruce forced himself to look into Jerome's eyes. The green pools were brimmed with insanity as per usual, but there was something soft about them. It was like Jerome actually cared. _He did, didn't he_?

"I don't want you to hurt me," Bruce whispered quietly.

Jerome hummed and lightly dragged his thumb across Bruce's jaw. His mouth almost became a pout and Bruce couldn't tell if the ginger was being cruel or not. Bruce hated that look whether it was real or not. He hated Jerome's pity and sympathy. It was his fault anyway. It was. Wasn't it?

 _Or was it his own fault?_

"I can't take it anymore, Jerome," Bruce said, continuing to speak in a soft, meek tone. "I want to-"

"Ah, ah, ah," Jerome said warningly, and Bruce flinched. The raven haired boy had been forbidden to say that phrase: _I want to go home_. Jerome normally hurt him or at least berated him if he did. Jerome always said that Bruce was home.

Bruce bit his lip. He dropped his gaze and released a shaky breath.

Jerome stared at him deeply. "Oh, Brucie," he said, sighing, "if only you could see that what I'm doing is for your own good." He shook his head. "Everything I do, I do for you. It's all for your own good."

 _For his own good. It was for his own good._

That couldn't be right, though.

 _Liar. Liar. Liar_.

Bruce didn't give an answer. He stared towards the floor with a slight frown on his face. He wasn't sure what to think anymore. He couldn't tell Jerome's mockery from genuine care. He didn't know the difference between them anymore. Jerome chuckled slowly and reached out, grasping Bruce's shoulders. "You'll see, in time. Now come on, let's get you back to your room."

The leaves had changed. It was plain and simple cold in Bruce's room. He stayed huddled in blankets. He mostly moved when Jerome made him, and almost never looked outside. He used to, in hopes of seeing police cars on the way. He envisioned them coming in lines as far as they eye can see to take him home and far away from this place. Now all he saw when he looked out was the city that just seemed farther away every time he looked.

He stepped inside and moved towards the bed immediately. Jerome stayed by the door, watching him closely as Bruce crawled beneath the blankets and wrapped himself in them. The ginger seemed to smirk, but Bruce couldn't understand why.

"Now, Brucie," Jerome said calmly, "I'm going to be busy for a little while. I'm having some _friends_ over, and we're all going to have a little meeting. I'll come up to see you as soon as we're done. Okay?"

Bruce nodded his head.

"Atta boy."

Jerome smirked and turned on his heel. Bruce watched him go out the door and then with a soft grunt, he stood up and moved over to the sink. His leg had mostly healed by now, and he had little trouble walking on it. Another grimy mirror was hanging over the sink, and Bruce could once again see himself.

What had happened to him? What had Jerome done to him? He was Bruce Wayne. He was the son of Thomas and Martha Wayne; He was the heir to Wayne Enterprises. He was part of a proud family. He was the sole remaining Wayne in Gotham, in fact. How had he become this shell? How had he allowed Jerome to do this to him?

 _Jerome was protecting him_.

Jerome was slowly killing him from the inside.

 _Jerome was a savior_.

Jerome was a monster.

"I have to escape," he whispered. His voice was hoarse and quiet.

If no one was coming to rescue him, then Bruce needed to escape himself. He had to get home. He had to get back to Wayne Enterprises, to Wayne Manor, to his friends; He had to get away from Jerome before the maniac _broke_ him.

 _How?_

Jerome said he was going to be in a meeting. That was Bruce's chance to escape. He needed to get out of here while the psychopath was busy. He could get back to Gotham while Jerome was preoccupied. He could get back to Wayne Manor.

A sudden determination filled Bruce entirely. He suddenly felt more confident than he had been in some time. He stood up to his full height and made his way to the door slowly. It was time to go.

He opened the door as quietly as it could. It creaked regardless, and Bruce grimaced. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, remembering something Selina had said to him shortly after they had just met.

 _You move quiet_.

He smiled. It was the first smile he had made in some time, and it felt foreign. He could do this. He could escape. Opening his eyes, Bruce slipped from the door and began to silently make his way down the hall. No one was on this floor aside from him. Jerome never let anyone on this floor. However, the lower floors were packed with cultists. Bruce needed to be careful.

He descended the stairs, keeping an eye and ear out for cultists. He made it to the first floor and paused before looking out slowly. The coast was clear. It was time to go.

Bruce walked as quietly as he could. There was a peculiar lack of cultists. Perhaps they were all with Jerome and whatever party he was host to. Perhaps he had picked the truly perfect time to escape.

This thought became fleeting as he walked straight into a cultist.

The young man didn't look much older than Bruce. The painted boy looked utterly shocked, as did Bruce, but then instinct took over the both of them. Bruce made to run and was tackled. "Where the hell do ya think you're goin'?" the cultist snarled.

Bruce hit the ground with a grimace. He struggled beneath the other boy who was, frankly, almost as lanky as Bruce. "The boss will get a kick out of this. _His_ Bruce Wayne trying to make a run for it. I wonder what he'll do to you when he finds out you tried to escape."

"I wonder what he'll do to _you_ when he finds out you let me." Bruce brought his fist around and punched the boy hard. It was just enough to knock the cultist off him. Without another word, Bruce sprang up and took a run for it. The cultist was climbing to his feet, but Bruce was already turning the corner. He could hear the boy shouting for help behind him.

Bruce felt his heart beating hard in his chest. He ducked down into a corner as he heard footsteps approaching. Hiding, he watched a few cultists dash by. Bruce covered his mouth to silence his heavy breathing.

"Someone, go get Jerome!"

"He's on the run!"

"If we let him escape, Jerome'll kill us all."

They hurried by. Bruce climbed out slowly.

He felt his stomach twist. This was bad. He needed to get out, _now_.

 _No, he needed to go back upstairs to his room before they told Jerome._

Jerome was going to _hurt him_ when he found him; He needed to go.

 _He needed to beg for forgiveness_.

He had to go.

Bruce took off down the hall, panting heavily. He just had to get outside. He had to get past the gates. He could hide and escape if he could just get past the gates outside.

Bruce saw the door and sudden relief flooded through him. He knew better than to run out in the open this time. The last thing he needed was to be shot again. Bruce opened the doors and stepped outside. It was dark. Rain was pouring down and thunder was roaring overhead. Bruce hurried along the wall, trying to stay in the shadows.

He could barely see through the sheets of rain, but it was better that way. That meant it would be harder to see him. As Bruce slid across the wall, keeping as close as possible, he squinted and saw the gate across the entry way for trucks. He bit his lip. It was a long run, but he could make it. He could very faintly hear distant shouting. He needed to run now.

He took off at a sprint towards the gate, arms pumping. His leg was beginning to hurt and he felt weak, but he refused to stop. He only stopped when he heard a familiar voice speaking behind him.

"Ya sure you wanna do that, Brucie?"

Bruce froze and turned slowly to see Jerome Valeska catching up quickly. The ginger slowed to a stop several feet away. Behind him, there was a group of heavily armed cultists. Jerome's hair was sticking to his head. He, like Bruce, was easily soaked in the rain. He stared calmly.

Bruce felt himself shaking. "I want to go home," he said, having to speak over the rain.

Jerome chuckled and shook his head. "That's not home," he said, his smile fading and an angry and serious look filling his eyes. "That's not your home anymore, Bruce."

"It is my home! You took me from my home!" Bruce took another step back. The cultists moved to step forward but were stopped by the ginger.

"No," Jerome said, almost too quietly to hear from all the rain. "No, I _saved_ you. I took you away from all the people who would harm you, who would _lie_ to you. I took you away from the people who wanted you to grow up to be perfect Bruce Wayne. I made sure they thought that perfect idol was dead. I did it all so you could be _free_." Jerome shook his head slowly. "I just want to take care of you, Bruce. I want to teach you that there's nothing _there_ for you. Not in a city like Gotham. You're safer here, with me."

Bruce felt his lip quiver. He was confused. Was Jerome telling the truth? Was he lying? He didn't know anymore. Everything that came out of the ginger's mouth seemed to be so real to him. Did Jerome want to protect him?

"Bruce Wayne is dead," Jerome said slowly. "To Gotham, you no longer exist. Think about it, Brucie. No one's came by once to look for you. No one's looking for you. Not James Gordon, not your butler: No one. All you have left is _this_. This is home."

Jerome tilted his head. Bruce couldn't see it, but there was pure insanity gleaming in Jerome's eyes. If this worked, then the ginger _knew_ he had Bruce in his pocket. All he had to do was say the words. "Come home now, Brucie." He opened his arms as if inviting Bruce back.

The raven haired boy stood still a moment. The gate was mere feet away. He could run and Jerome would lose sight of him in seconds. If he did, though, where would he go?

 _No one was looking for him_.

 _No one wanted him._

 _Jerome was the only person who cared._

Bruce felt his feet moving in the opposite direction of the gate. He moved closer and closer to Jerome. He didn't notice the twisted smirk that crossed Jerome's face. When he got close, Bruce didn't stop walking. He walked right into Jerome's arms, pressing his face into his chest.

Jerome wrapped his arms around him with a smirk.

 _He had him_.

"That's good, Brucie. Now, let's go inside."

* * *

Bruce's screams echoed off the walls. He was still damp from the rain, but his soaked shirt and pants had been yanked off him, leaving him shivering in a pair of boxer shorts. He was tied down to a table in the boiler room, facing the floor. There was a knife carving into his lower back.

Bruce, over time, had grown to hate the boiler room. The first time he saw it, he had thought it resembled Hell. Now, however, he was certain that this was in fact Hell. The only things that ever happened in the boiler room were torture, murder, and misery.

The raven haired boy sobbed and tried for what felt like the hundredth time to pull free from his bindings. After bringing him inside, Jerome had taken him by the ear and dragged him down the halls and into the elevator. They had been down there nearly an hour now.

"I know it hurts," Jerome cooed mockingly, "but this is what happens when little boys try to run away from home. Now, stop fussing, Brucie." Jerome chuckled. "You're making your wrists bleed."

The next letter was carved painstakingly slow into Bruce's back and the boy let out a sobbed shriek. "I'm sorry! I won't run away again! I swear!"

"I know," Jerome replied airily. "But that doesn't mean I can let you get away with it."

He began to work on the next letter, and Bruce wailed as he tried to thrash his way free. Nothing worked, though. He had indeed caused his wrists to bleed from his struggle against the restraints. He was sobbing harshly. "Let me up! Jerome, please let me up!"

"I'm not done," the ginger responded absently. "You can get up when I'm done."

The last letter was carved and Jerome stepped back to look at the jagged word. _Joker_. Jerome liked the sound of it. He had carved the signature smiley face into Bruce's chest, and now he was signing the artwork. All artists did it.

Giggling, the ginger cocked his head. He stared down at the boy lying on his belly as if in thought. Bruce's screams had died down to whimpers and shuddery breaths. _He wanted the screams back_. Humming, Jerome slipped his belt out of its loops and folded it. He lifted it and brought it down hard against the backs of Bruce's legs. Bruce let out another wail.

"You see, Brucie," Jerome said, as the belt came down again with a _whoosh_ , "I can do this for as long as I like. I can keep you chained there all day and I can hurt you all I want." As he spoke, he brought the belt down again. Bruce's cries rang off the walls. "I decide when you need it, and I decide when you've had enough." _Whoosh_ , and Bruce screamed to the point that his throat began to burn. "Do you know why that is Bruce?"

Silence came from the shivering boy tied to the table, and Jerome frowned. He brought the belt up and down again. Dark red lines were appearing on Bruce's legs. "I can do this as long as I want, and _no one_ is going to stop me. Why is that, Bruce?"

Jerome paused and listened. Still shaking and crying, Bruce lifted his head slightly to stare straight ahead. He sniffled, lips quivering. He swallowed hard and then spoke in a trembling voice:

"Because there are no heroes in Gotham."


	13. Prison Break

**One more chapter, and then the epilogue to go! The next chapter is going to be once again delving into Jerome's mind and his obsession with Bruce Wayne. It'll go in a little deeper about the holes that are missing of what's been happening to Bruce. It's a chapter I've been planning out since I began, in all honesty.**

 **I am very sorry this chapter took so long, but as per usual, I gained a bit of writer's block when trying to write the last stand, so to speak. I was never good at writing conclusions. I'm not actually particularly happy with this chapter, but I highly doubt I could do better. So, here we are!**

 **As always, I hope you enjoy. I'd love to hear what you all think. Thanks to all of you for your support, patience, and your lovely comments. Some of them made me nearly cry tears of joy.**

The sound of Penguin's footsteps were notable to all of Gotham. The distinctive _step, drag, step_ along with the click of his cane was iconic in the ears and hearts of any who heard. That sound meant different things to different people. To underworld lackeys, it meant their boss was approaching, and it would be wise to adopt a look of submission. To the people of Gotham, it meant their beloved but strange mayor was approaching; Be glad!

To Jim Gordon, the sound of Oswald Cobblepot's footsteps normally meant trouble.

"I'd like to speak with Jim Gordon!"

Oswald's voice rang out in the GCPD and all heads turned. There he stood at the door, cane grasped tightly in one hand and usual thin lipped smile plastered on his face. He watched as everyone slowly turned their head towards Jim Gordon, who was standing on the platform above with files in hand and mouth slightly opened, as if he had been interrupted from speaking. He stared at Oswald momentarily before glancing at Harvey Bullock and handing him the files.

"Lucky you, partner," Bullock mumbled, taking the files.

"Thanks," Jim replied sarcastically. He strode his way down the steps and towards Oswald, who was waiting impatiently. "Mayor Cobblepot, what can I do for you?"

Penguin smiled. It was a _false_ smile. "Actually, it's what I can do for you. I have a gift for you. Would you accompany me outside, please?"

Jim lifted an eyebrow. This was unlike Oswald, and yet, it was strangely _exactly_ like Oswald. "Uh - all right," Jim muttered, gesturing towards the exit. Oswald nodded curtly and spun, making his way over to the doors. Jim followed, sparing a last glance at a watchful Harvey as he made his way inside. "What is this gift, Oswald?"

Oswald gave a playful smile and chuckled. "Now, Jim, you'll just have to wait and see."

Oswald led him to the alley next to the GCPD. Jim knew it well. He vaguely remembered being attacked by Barbara Kean in the same area. Now, Jim only saw a group of men. Penguin's men, in fact. He frowned. "Oswald?" The men parted and revealed what they were surrounding: a young boy, probably no older than eighteen, lying broken and bleeding. "What the hell is this?" Jim growled.

" _This_ , Detective Gordon, is me keeping up my side of the deal. You _did_ still want me to find Bruce Wayne, correct?"

Jim looked between the nearly unconscious boy and Oswald. "Yeah, but this isn't Bruce," Jim snarled.

"Observant as always, Detective," Oswald mumbled. He forced a smile back onto his face. "You are correct; That is not Mr. Wayne. However, this young man happens to be one of our very own Jerome Valeska's cultists. He knows where Jerome is hiding, and that means he knows where our beloved billionaire will be."

Jim's eyes widened and he looked closer at the boy. Despite being beaten to a pulp, the teen looked more amused than anything else. He was grinning ear to ear and chuckling as he spat out blood. His body was shaking from exertion but he looked gleeful. On his arm, there was a poorly done tattoo of the trademark smile Jerome's cultists had been drawing all over the city. "Where did you find him?"

"Not important," Oswald quipped back. "Remember our deal, Detective. You _owe_ me." There was a foreboding to those words, and Jim frowned deeply but nodded. "Good. Have a nice time with him, Detective." Oswald waved at his men and they began to depart, leaving Jim with the sprawled teen.

Jim turned his attention to the grinning boy who was making no move to run. He set his jaw. "Just so you know," Jim said slowly, taking out handcuffs, "You're under arrest."

The boy sniggered. "By all means." He held out his wrists.

Jim rolled his eyes as he hauled the boy to his feet and pushed him along. "Come on."

* * *

"Can you tell us your name?" Jim asked slowly. After cleaning the boy up, he and Harvey brought him into the interrogation room. Jim sat across from him while Harvey paced slowly. The boy, who was sporting a black eye and various cuts on his face, was still smiling slightly.

"It's Eric," he replied easily.

"And you're an associate of Mr. Valeska?" Jim asked, staring at the boy closely. Eric didn't look like much. He was tall, thin, with somewhat greasy dark brown hair that was almost shoulder length. He looked like the average rebellious teen: an outsider in school, probably bullied.

Eric grew an amused look at the words. "Associate?" he echoed. He gave a laugh. "What the hell is that supposed to mean? _Associate_."

"It means, do you or have you ever been associated with Mr. Valeska. Now, answer the question, _putz_ ," Harvey growled impatiently.

Eric looked at the two men smugly, his lips drawn in a thin, self-pleased smile. He seemed unconcerned with the fact that he had just earlier been beaten by a few of Penguin's thugs, and in fact seemed oblivious to the pain. Jim couldn't help but wonder how it was that all of Jerome's followers seemed so immune to pain. "Okay," Eric said with a sigh, " _fine_. I'm an... associate of Mr. Valeska." His eyebrows lifted in amusement at the word. "What of it?" He crossed his arms and leaned back.

"Other than you just admitting to being involved with a man known for various crime?" Jim replied. "We want to know Jerome's location."

At those words, the young man began to laugh. It was a high pitched sound, like a hyena's. It echoed throughout the room and Jim grimaced. "You underestimate us," Eric said, sniggering. "You think we're some fleeting, indecisive and fickle group of morons who switch sides at the drop of a hat? Jerome is a _genius_ and a _prophet_ to the new world."

"Jerome is a psychotic mortal man who has kidnapped a very important person," Jim retorted easily.

Eric's eyebrows once more shot up in amusement. He grinned. " _Ah_. So that's what this is over. Billionaire Baby Bruce Wayne." He chuckled. "I wouldn't say he's that important."

"Listen, pal," Harvey said suddenly. He moved in one, swift movement to stand beside of Jim, leaning on the table. "You alone are facing at least twenty years in Blackgate. Your prophet isn't going to save you from that. _But_ , if you give us the information we need, that'll make you look a hell of a lot nicer. What do you say?"

Eric turned and stared at Harvey. His face was completely blank. "No one said the disciples' lives were easy," he replied.

Bullock's face turned red in rage, but Jim merely stared at the smug man's face. He was silent for a long time. He was quite certain he could hear Eric laughing, and Harvey yelling, but all was inaudible as he tried to come up with a way to get the boy to talk. He seemed numb to pain, which made him wonder what sort of horrible initiations and rituals Jerome put his cultists through. He seemed uncaring at the idea of prison, too.

 _But he hadn't sounded fond of Bruce_ , Jim remembered.

"Jerome hasn't been seen in months," Jim said suddenly. "Is he hiding? Or is he... spending time with Bruce Wayne?"

For the briefest moment, a flicker of agitation crossed Eric's eyes. He glanced at Jim. "Jerome doesn't _hide_ ," he replied with.

Harvey quickly caught on and added, "So he has been with Bruce, then?"

Like the flick of a switch, Eric's mood soured.

"The prophet spends his time doing important things throughout the day, but he takes breaks at intervals to... see the boy," he said, glancing away with annoyance.

Jim looked at Harvey slowly, as if they were about to approach a skittish animal. Harvey returned the look and nodded. "So Bruce Wayne is alive?" he asked, looking at the now thoroughly annoyed young man.

Eric nodded his head in distaste. "Despite our pressing to kill him, Jerome has ensured that Bruce Wayne is alive. He takes great measures in ensuring Bruce Wayne remains alive." Eric sneered, and Jim knew he had tapped into something. "No one's allowed on the boy's floor anymore."

"He has his own floor?" Harvey asked, feigning an impressed sound.

"Jerome put him up there because not many people used it, but now he keeps him there and no one's allowed up but him," Eric explained, grumbling quietly. Jim could see that something about speaking of the young billionaire upset him somehow, and he intended to use this to his advantage. "Just two weeks ago, Bennie went up to just look at him, maybe play around a bit, and Jerome _killed him_ right there in front of the kid. We didn't think the screams were ever going to go away." He paused. "Problem was, we couldn't decipher Bennie's screams from Wayne's." Eric scowled.

Harvey raised an eyebrow. "Sounds like Jerome's protecting him," he said, still feigning surprise.

The words caused Eric to give a small snarl. His mood had changed like the wind, and now he was angry and sulking. "It wasn't supposed to go this long. We were gonna take the kid, torture him awhile, and then Jerome was supposed to get bored with him. We were supposed to kill him. Jerome's not getting bored, though. He spends half his time up there with the kid-"

"When he should be working with you lot, scheming," Harvey said with conviction.

"Exactly!" Eric barked, giving a growl. "Half the time, he don't even do anything to the kid. Just makes him think that he _wants_ to be there. The boss is a genius, but he's _wasting his time_! He shouldn't be babysitting."

"So," Jim said, leaning forward, "You tell us where Bruce is, we'll take him off Jerome's hands, and everything goes back to normal."

The young cultist froze. He suddenly got nervous looking, and Jim couldn't help but think he remembered seeing this kid a few months back, being sent to Arkham for something or another. "I- I couldn't do that," Eric muttered. "The boss wouldn't like it."

"Who's gonna tell?" Harvey cut in. "You going to tell, Jim?"

"Nope," Jim answered. "My lips are sealed."

"So how's about it, Eric?" Harvey paused. "You'd be doing your prophet a favor, don't you think? Getting him back on track and away from this distraction."

Eric bit his lip and shuffled in his seat. He looked between the two cops nervously once again. He seemed to twitch every now and then. Finally, he leaned forward slowly. "All right... Just- Just get that kid away from him. He's messing with Jerome's mind."

* * *

"I want all units up and moving _now_!"

Jim strode out of the interrogation room. A few heads lifted to look up in curiosity. "Someone get Alfred Pennyworth on the phone and get him down here. The rest of you, I want geared up immediately. We've found Bruce Wayne."

People began to scatter. People moved to and fro, hurrying to ready themselves. Harvey came out after Jim and looked around briefly. "They won't be expecting us," he said quietly. "But we need to be careful. If he spook Jerome, he'll take the kid and go. Or worse, he'll kill him. We can't go guns blazing."

"No," Jim agreed. "But if we go with no one, those cultists won't think twice about shooting us down." He paused and looked at Harvey. "So, I want our men near the front of the building, distracting the cultists and turning their heads. A smaller group will come in from the back. We'll find Bruce."

"All right. Get in, get out. Arresting can be done when the kid's safe." Harvey stared at Jim grimly. "This isn't going to go down easy, you know?"

"No, but we need to go now. We can't wait any longer."

Jim strode towards the door, Harvey behind him. Cop cars were waiting. Harvey yanked the driver's side door open to one just as Jim climbed in, and as soon as the door was shut, he hit the gas. Eric had told them Jerome was holed up in the old factory across the bay. He said the boy was on the higher floor, in a room on the far left end of the building. That was where they would find Bruce Wayne.

A line of cop cars followed Harvey's like a funeral procession. Passerby glanced at them, and thugs kept their eyes down. It was not unusual to see a string of cop cars driving through Gotham; Gotham was filled with crime. Everyone seemed to sense something _big_ was about to happen, however.

Jim paused and looked out the window, watching them. He suddenly remembered something. He reached in and grabbed his phone, dialing Lucius' number. "What are you doing?" Harvey asked, looking over at him.

"Calling Lucius," he replied. "I'm going to see if he can track down Selina Kyle."

* * *

Bruce Wayne laid sprawled out on the small bed, staring at the ceiling. His body felt numb and it had for some time now. He hardly felt pain. It was a good thing Jerome was good at getting creative in ways to hurt him; Otherwise, the ginger might get bored of him.

 _No,_ he scolded himself. _Jerome cares about me._

He sat up slowly and looked around the room. Jerome had told him he was going to be a little late today, because he was working on something important. That had bothered Bruce at first, because Jerome was his only company. The cultists weren't allowed to come see him anymore. However, Jerome promised he would get done as soon as he could, and that had satisfied Bruce.

His mind hardly even dwelled on his misery anymore. It was supposed to be that way, wasn't it? He was miserable, but he had always been as such. There was nothing more for him. At least he had Jerome. Jerome promised he would never let Bruce go. He would take care of him forever. That was good, wasn't it? His misery and Jerome were all Bruce had. That was right.

He sighed deeply. Part of him wished Jerome would hurry and finish his work. It was lonely. Jerome wouldn't let any of the cultists come up at all anymore. Not since the incident.

 _Maybe he'll play a game with me again. Like chess. Or Battleship_ _._

The sound of gunshots filled the air, but Bruce paid it little mind. That was a sound one could hear often around here. Sometimes, when a cultist stepped too out of line, Jerome would plug him with a few bullets. Sometimes, when Jerome was bored, he did it anyway.

These gunshots sounded like they were coming from outside. In fact, Bruce heard shouting. His eyebrows furrowed.

 _They're here! They've finally come for-_

No. That wasn't right. No one was coming. Jerome said no one was coming. That was the truth.

He laid back down, facing the wall. Maybe he should take a nap. That helped time go by. It could block out those horrid gunshots, too.

 _Bang! Bang! Bang!_

What on earth were they doing out there? They never fired off so many at once. Bruce frowned and peeked over his shoulder at the dingy window, but never moved. He sighed and dropped his head back on his pillow. Jerome would make them stop soon. Bruce waited silently, listening. _Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!_

He frowned and sat up. Why weren't they stopping? Was Jerome doing something?

 _Someone's come for you_.

No one was coming for him. Jerome had said so.

 _They're here to rescue you!_

There was no need for rescue. Bruce was fine.

 _They're going to save you._

Nothing could save Bruce.

"Bruce!"

A voice shouted, and it wasn't Jerome's. He frowned and looked towards the door wide eyed. That voice was familiar to him. For weeks, he had dreamed he would hear it, until finally the dreams turned to nightmares and ended with Jerome's laughter. "Losing my mind," he whispered, shaking his head and starting to lay back down.

And then the door was kicked open.

And James Gordon stepped inside.

"Bruce! There you are!" He hurried to the boy. Bruce sat up wide eyed and flinched when Jim got too near. It caused the cop to hesitate. "It's just me. I'm here to get you out of here. Come on."

"Detective Gordon?" he whispered.

For a moment, Bruce's face was expressionless. Suddenly, however, everything seemed to come crashing in and tears filled the teen's eyes. Jim lowered his gun and walked over, putting an arm around the boy and holding his head against his chest. "It's me. Come on, we're going to take you home. Can you stand up for me?"

Jim assisted the boy up and began moving him out the door. "But where's Jerome?" Bruce asked, eyes widening.

Jim stared ahead as he walked the boy down the hall. "Right now? Being arrested."


	14. Safe At Last

**Hi, guys!**

 **I'm not sure if anyone still checks this or not but here's the actual final chapter! I will likely write a short epilogue and that will be it. This chapter is very short as it basically just wraps everything up. There's a lot of mentioning of abuse in this chapter and there's also a lot of hurt/comfort towards the end of it.**

 **Now that this book is more or less finished, I'm unsure whether I'll write another one here. Part of me would love to do maybe a Dark Valeyne story, but I'm not sure yet. After all, we all see how long it took me to write this one.**

 **There's also a chance that after I write the epilogue, I'll write a sequel to this story. That all depends on how people react to the epilogue. I may just leave it at that.**

 **I hope you have enjoyed this story as much as I've enjoyed writing it! Thank you all for your support and care (and _patience_ , thank you so much for that). **

The interrogation room held enough tension in it to slice with a knife, but the ginger handcuffed to the table didn't seem to think so. In fact, Jerome Valeska was staring off without a care in the world, slightly slouched, eyes staring off and a slight smirk on his face. He had yet to speak a word, which was strange for Jerome. The ginger was different than Jim remembered him. For one, someone had fixed his face; Fixed was a strong word, sloppily stitched it was a better term. At least, it was properly attached again. Jim imagined that Jerome had plenty of cultists and somewhere in that sea of insanity, there was probably a doctor.

Jim briefly recalled the first time he met Jerome at that circus. It had been so easy to believe every lie that spilled out of the young man's mouth. He had acted the horrified son so well. It had shocked him to realize the truth: Jerome was nothing more than a deranged lunatic who had murdered his mother.

Now that lunatic was once again in that same interrogation room, but so much had changed. Jerome wasn't even pretending to be frightened this time.

"Jerome," Jim said slowly, tilting his head.

The ginger seemed to wake. Green eyes flickered over to the detective and he inclined his head to him. "Detective Gordon," he said in a raspy tone. Those green eyes glittered maniacally.

"We need to ask you a few questions," said Jim, as he sat down in front of the young man.

Jerome's eyebrows lifted thoughtfully and he fidgeted in his chair, as if to get comfortable. "Oh? Well, then by all means, ask away! I'm sure I can easily... _enlighten_ you." Grinning, Jim noticed that despite having his face replaced, there was something off about his smile. It had been torn slightly at the edges, and now it looked like a constant smile was being plastered on the ginger's face. "So! What would you like to know?"

"Bruce Wayne's injuries are... extensive. Did you do this to him?"

Jim's face was kept calm and placid, voice low. Jerome, however, was suddenly animated. "Injuries? Which injuries do you mean?" he replied. His smile came back in a slow, deliberate way and he leaned forward. "Be more specific, Jim." His voice was a deep growl.

Jim was silent for a moment. Did he want to play Jerome's game? Finally, he decided that the best way to go about it was to simply play. "All right, we'll start off with the carvings on his body. Did you do all of those?"

Pausing a moment, Jerome looked around thoughtfully and then he looked at Jim. He was no longer smiling, but his lips were still being forced up in that constant smile. "Yes, of course. Bruce needed to be marked as one of our own, you see. The face on his chest is to represent that he belongs to us now. It was all part of our initiation ceremony. The others on his legs and arms are _rewards_. A couple others were _punishment_." Jerome chuckled darkly, and then leaned back. "Next question."

"There's a big scar on his leg. It looks like a gunshot," Jim said, quickly moving to the next topic. He didn't want to stay on one for too long.

"That is correct," Jerome chimed, nodding.

Jim clenched his jaw. "You shot him?"

Jerome looked down at his hands on the table. "No, no, no," he said, shaking his head. "It isn't that simple, Jimbo. I didn't _just_ shoot him. I didn't just decide to. I told him, if he didn't stop running, I was going to shoot him. I told him, if he took _one more step_ , I would shoot. He didn't stop running, so I shot. I took care of him afterwards. I took out the bullet and I wrapped up the wound. I kept it clean and everything. I told him to stop."

There's some conviction in his voice, Jim realizes. Jerome believes every word he's saying to the fullest. "So, you only shot him because he disobeyed you," he said slowly.

"That's right!" Jerome nodded his head, eyes wide with glee. "I told him not to do something and he did it anyway!"

"And so you shot him," Jim said pointedly.

"Only in the leg," muttered the ginger, almost sullenly. "Not like I killed him or anything. Now, next question! What else ya wanna know?"

Jim stared at the ginger in silence for a moment. Jerome now seemed excited to continue, which was disturbing for the detective to see. Clearly, Jerome liked talking about Bruce Wayne and his time with the boy. "Tell me more about how you took care of Bruce Wayne," he said.

The ginger's eyes lit up. "Oh, all right," he said thoughtfully, "let's see. I kept his injuries clean, I fed him, I ensured he stayed clean, I-"

"Slow down," Jim said, "you mean you kept him fed?"

"Yes. Well, I kept him fed, and I fed him. He went on a hunger strike and refused to eat." Jerome's eyes glanced around the room as if searching for something. "I kept him safe, too. From those moronic cultists, I mean. I kept him safe."

"Safe," Jim repeated. "Was he safe?"

Suddenly, Jerome's mood seemed to change. He looked at Jim Gordon darkly and tilted his head downward. "He was," he rasped.

There was silence between the two while Jim tried to understand. He had seemed Jerome lying before, and he wasn't sure this was Jerome lying. Rather, this was Jerome's sick, twisted truth. The ginger believed that he had done good things for the young billionaire.

"There are bruises," Jim said, slowly. "On his thighs, on... What happened?"

Jerome's dark expression suddenly lifted. His eyebrows quirked and his lips parted, loosing a soft, thoughtful moan. "Oh, Brucie had to have a lot of spankings," he said lowly. "He fought them, at first. He'd scream and fight and struggle with me, he's such a gladiator that way. However, finally, after awhile, he'd start the begging. 'Let me up, let me up'!" Jerome mimicked Bruce's voice in a higher pitched, panicked way. "And then, finally, he'd just lie still and let me. It took awhile, but finally he stopped trying to stop me completely. He'd come when I told him to and lie down. _Such a good boy_."

Jim swallowed thickly. "And the other bruises? What about the ones on his face?"

"Well, I have been known to get ahead of myself," Jerome growled.

A sick feeling had filled the pit of Jim Gordon's stomach now. He could only stare at the ginger in horror. Jerome's eyebrows suddenly furrowed and he looked around in thought. "Speaking of, where _is_ my Brucie?" The question came seriously, and then green eyes became angry looking. "Where is he? What did you do with him?"

For the first time, Jerome began to struggle in the restraints. He attempted to stand, but the cuffs would not allow him to do so. He began growling and spitting furiously. "Where is my Brucie? Where is he?"

The demand came again and again, and Jim sat back wide eyed.

" _Where is he_?"

* * *

Bruce Wayne sat in the little hospital room in the GCPD, staring at his hands. The door opened and he flinched before looking up. It was Alfred. "Master B!" Alfred walked briskly, and Bruce's eyes immediately filled with tears as the butler came over. He blinked them away.

"Alfred," he whispered. The butler stopped in front of him as if to pause to make sure the boy would not be frightened, and then he quickly gathered him in his arms. Bruce let out a sob, grasping onto the front of the man's shirt as if his life depended on it.

"You're all right," the older man soothed, "You're safe now. I'm so sorry. I'm sorry. You're all right."

Bruce wept softly against his guardian, clinging to him. It was many minutes before he calmed down again. "I was afraid you weren't coming," he said meekly, hiccupping through tears. "He- He told me you had all stopped looking."

"I wouldn't have stopped for the rest of my life," Alfred replied softly. He cupped Bruce's face and then pulled him in again. "Never."

They sat there this way for what felt like eternity. Finally, Bruce had calmed down enough to speak properly. He had collapsed against his guardian's chest, eyes staring off in an almost blank manner while Alfred quietly held him. Finally, he said, "They're taking him back to Arkham?"

Alfred glanced down at the young man. Bruce looked so different from the last time he had seen him. He was somewhat thinner and paler. Dark circles were under his eyes and there were a few bruises on his face. There were multiple cuts and scars on Bruce's arms. Little smiles and the word "HA" were carved into his skin. Alfred shuddered to think about each scar. He couldn't help but wonder about each one of them.

"They are," he answered. Alfred paused. "Master Bruce," he whispered. "I'm sorry. They came in that morning and I- Well, I don't remember-"

"It wasn't your fault, Alfred," Bruce replied easily. "You didn't open the door and let them in. You were outnumbered greatly. There was no way you could have fought them all away. Jerome came ready that day."

The door opened suddenly and Bruce's eyes snapped up as a frightened animal might. Instinctively, Alfred pulled him a little closer. It was only Jim Gordon at the door, who looked at the two of them. "Bruce, I really think you should go to a real hospital," he said, and was about to add more, when Bruce quickly interrupted.

"I promise you, I'm fine, Detective. I'll go see a doctor tomorrow morning but there's nothing so dire that I should have to go to the emergency room at this time of night. I want to sleep in my own bed." Bruce's voice was quiet and yet it was pleading. It was a silent plea to let him be for now. He just wanted to go home.

Frowning, Jim relented, giving a nod. "All right," he said slowly, "but tomorrow, I want you to go to a doctor."

The teen nodded his head. "Am I free to go?" he asked quietly.

The detective looked at him tentatively. "You are."

Bruce paused for a moment. He looked up at Jim and asked the burning question. "Is he still here? Has he been shipped off yet?" Those questions caused Alfred's hand to tighten just a little on Bruce's shoulder. Never painful, but firm.

Jim cleared his throat. "He's already in Arkham. It was agreed upon that you should stay here until he was officially placed in the asylum. We just got the call. He's there, heavily medicated with sedatives currently. He uh- Threw a bit of a fit earlier." Jim frowned. "It's safe for you to leave now, Bruce. Any time you're ready, you're free to go." He watched the expression on the young man's face but saw little changes. Bruce merely nodded. Glancing at Alfred, Jim turned and quickly left the room again.

Bruce and Alfred watched the door shut and then Bruce stood wordlessly and grabbed the coat that Alfred had brought for him. He pulled it over his scarred arms, zipping it. He took the first step towards the door when it opened again and he froze. Selina Kyle slowly slipped inside.

"Uh- Jim told me you'd be in here," she said, somewhat awkwardly, and glanced between Bruce and Alfred.

There was a moment of silence between the three of them. Bruce kept his eyes solely trained on Selina, and finally Alfred said in the most casual voice he could muster, "Well, I'll go and get the car." He moved by Bruce and then Selina, who stepped out of his way to let him through the door. Quietly, it shut behind him and left the two teens standing together.

There was silence in the room while the two stared at one another. Bruce's face was unreadable, but he couldn't help but think back to every _really_ bad day he'd had with Jerome, and now he had thought of her each time. She was just as beautiful as he remembered her.

He could never tell exactly what Selina was thinking, but there was something unpleasant about her expression. It was as if she had words to say, but they were making her sick and she was fighting the urge to not throw them up. "He hurt you?" she asked suddenly in a soft tone.

Bruce bit down on his lip. His eyes dropped towards the ground and he nodded his head.

"Yeah."

More silence ensued between the two, and then she said, "I tried to find you. I looked everywhere. I tried every fence and every- every contact I had. Hell, I even tried the Gilzean family and- and I couldn't-"

Bruce took a step forward wordlessly and she fell silent. He took another step and she understood, quickly wrapping her arms around him. His own arms slipped around her and together they stood, heads resting on one another's shoulders, breathing quick and ragged. "I looked," she said meekly. "I looked everywhere I knew to look."

Slowly, Bruce shook his head. His arms held her tighter and he let out a shuddery breath. Her curls tickled his face and her fingers gripped the back of his coat. "You looked," he replied hoarsely. "That's enough."

She laughed, but the sound was shaky and filled with tears that she would never let fall. She pulled away enough to look at him and her fingers absently reached up to run through his hair, then cup his face. He gave her a thin lipped smile. "I don't suppose I could talk you into spending a night or two, could I?" he muttered.

Now she did laugh, and the sound was a little less sad. "Are you kidding me?" she replied. "At this rate, I'll have to stay a week just so I can know you're not going to get kidnapped within the next twenty-four hours."

* * *

Wayne Manor was settling as it did every night. Bruce hadn't heard the sound in months and it felt new to him. All of this felt new to him. He was in his own bed, in his own clothes after a shower in his own bathroom, and Selina was sitting on his bed, absently playing with a ball she'd found underneath his bed.

"Your house makes weird noises," she muttered. It wasn't the first time she had told him that. Bruce glanced up at her. He had so far not removed any clothing except his shoes. He wouldn't even take off his coat, although he had given Selina some of his own pajamas to sleep in. She was currently in one of his T-shirts and a pair of his pajama bottoms. She hadn't mentioned him getting ready for bed just yet.

He paused and thought about it. "I guess it does," he said softly. "It is old." Smiling, Bruce looked at her and she paused to gaze up at him. A slight grin spread across her face.

"It is," she agreed in amusement. She tossed the ball at him and he caught it, looking down at it. He was almost certain this was something she had brought with her one night when visiting him. She always needed something to occupy herself with. "Bruce?"

"Yeah?" He looked up at her.

Selina paused for a moment and said, "You need to get some sleep. You should go to bed, Bruce."

He froze. He knew what she meant. He needed to get ready for bed. He wouldn't take off his coat in front of her. Bruce didn't want her to see the scars. Perhaps he didn't want her to think less of him. Would they be hideous in her eyes? Would she be disgusted for what Jerome had reduced him to? His eyes dropped to his hands again.

She saw this and sighed softly. Sliding closer, her hand reached out and took the ball from him. "Do you want me to go stay next door?" she asked gently.

"No," was the immediate answer. Bruce wanted her in here. He didn't want to sleep alone.

Selina reached out and let her fingers rake through his hair. Her nails lightly scratched his scalp. "You have to get some rest, Bruce. Would you rather sleep with it on?"

Bruce's eyes closed and he leaned into her touch. He swallowed thickly and shook his head a little. His fingers reached up slowly and unbuttoned the coat. Selina's hand continued to run through the dark tresses of hair soothingly while he unbuttoned the coat and slowly shrugged it off. Her hand paused when she saw the many jagged lines and drawings, but then began again. Bruce reached down with the intentions to pull his shirt off, but after consideration decided he wasn't ready to show her the rest. He looked at her slowly to gauge her reaction.

Selina's eyes were rarely soft but now they were. She sighed softly and took his hand, guiding him up the bed and under the blankets. She slid in behind him and leaned forward, pressing a kiss to the back of his neck. "I'm with you now," she muttered. "You're safe now."

The young billionaire bit his lip and glanced at her. Selina had begun lightly scratching his back and it was putting Bruce to sleep with ease. His eyes had grown heavy. He laid there with her, vaguely aware of her soothing tactics, until finally, Bruce Wayne had slipped into sleep.


	15. The Epilogue

**And so, we have reached the end of our story! Thank you for everyone who has followed this story while I've written it. I appreciate all of you and your nice comments, along with your criticism. Wow, this is the first fanfiction I've actually finished for awhile! I'm proud.**

 **As for what's next, I'm not sure whether I'll write a sequel or not. I'm giving you all the warning now that I left this story open-ended, in a sense. To let you all imagine what happens next. Some of you may hate it, but that's okay. I like it. There is room for a sequel, but really, I would love to do an actual Valeyne/Batjokes fanfiction, so I may focus on that instead. Let me know what you all think.**

 **I hope you've all enjoyed the story as much as I've enjoyed writing it. Once again, thank you all for your support.**

It had been exactly three months since Bruce had been freed from Jerome's insane ruling.

It had been horrible, at first. Bruce woke throughout the night with nightmares and screamed whenever someone touched him. He ate very little and spoke even less. It had taken a lot of time for Bruce to regain any strength physically, but it had taken longer for him to gain any emotional balance.

Selina had stayed at Wayne Manor the first month completely. She very rarely would leave his side and almost never let him be out of earshot. Only once did he slip out of her view completely, and it had caused a panic attack to occur. They had been outside, walking through the lawn near the tree line where the forest met the grass. She glanced behind her and suddenly he was gone. "Bruce? Bruce!" She had screamed for him and searched, only to find him coming out of the trees in confusion. She had grabbed him and yanked him to her, much to his confusion and fear. She had grabbed his head and roughly kissed his forehead. She had held him tightly while he apologized, over and over again, and eventually the two of them were both whispering apologies and affectionate murmurs.

Suddenly, Selina had much greater things to worry about than her independence. She had almost lost him, and although she would never admit it, it had frightened her. She refused to lose him again.

Jim Gordon visited periodically and pleaded with Alfred to get the boy a psychiatrist. Alfred had clearly said that it seemed like a good idea, but it was ultimately Bruce Wayne's decision and Bruce Wayne refused to agree to a shrink. He merely stated that he wasn't insane. He didn't need any psychiatric help.

Still yet, it was all very concerning to them when Bruce called out Jerome's name in his sleep. It was all very concerning the way he would cry, without being consoled, and refuse to be touched by anyone. The truth of the matter was, Jerome Valeska was still very much in Bruce Wayne's head. As much of a monster as the man had been to Bruce, Bruce had become emotionally attached to him. It was an unhealthy attachment undoubtedly, but an attachment nonetheless. Bruce never spoke of it and neither did Selina and Alfred. No one spoke about it. It seemed better if they didn't.

Finally, with time, Bruce stopped waking up with screams. He stopped pleading for Jerome to come help him. He stopped jumping any time the door opened.

Finally, Bruce became Bruce again.

After the first month was up, Selina went back to the streets. Bruce didn't blame her or resent her for it. She still came quite often, and often when he would wake at night, she would be there in bed with him, having crawled in through a window. He could take comfort in her and she could take comfort in the fact that he was still there, alive and next to her.

After the second month, he threw himself back into training. He had grown weak throughout the time he had been away, and he wanted to gain his strength back. He worked harder than he had ever before. Every punching bag was an outlet for him to escape with. By the end of the second month, he had pushed the memories away. They only came to him in distant dreams.

He didn't hear a word about Jerome during all of this. During that first month, he had asked Jim with each visit. Each time, he had gotten the same short but reassuring answers. "He's locked up tight," Jim would say. "They keep him under watch."

It was that night, near the end of the third month, that Bruce Wayne went to bed and dreamed about Jerome and his circus for the first time in weeks. Whether it was something on the news that had set him off or just some bad, lingering memory, he was unsure. That night, when he closed his eyes, a pair of green ones were waiting in his dreams.

 _"Oh, Brucie!" a voice crooned. "Where are ya, boy?"_

 _Bruce stood and stared at the bright lights of the circus. Around him, music played and the sound of squeals and laughter filled the air. Several feet away, standing on a stage, Jerome Valeska stood in a ring leader outfit, eyes squinting in his search for Bruce Wayne. "Bruce? Oh! There you are!"_

 _Bruce froze and stared wide eyed at the Circus Master. Jerome laughed. "What are you waiting for, kiddo? Get up here!"_

 _Suddenly, Bruce felt his legs moving on their own. He moved closer towards the stage. The large crowd of people standing amongst it suddenly parted and Bruce was allowed through. He looked at their smiling faces, painted and cheerful. Bruce's eyes glanced to and fro and then they snapped to attention to see Jerome waiting. The ginger reached out a gloved hand and Bruce reached out, taking it and allowing Jerome to pull him onto the stage._

 _"What's going on?" Bruce asked, looking around in confusion. He squinted in the bright lights._

 _The question brought laughter from the crowd. Jerome chuckled from deep within his throat. Bruce looked at him and frowned. "It's your homecoming, of course!" Jerome answered, reaching out and ruffling the boy's dark hair. "Oh Brucie, did you really think you could leave me?"_

 _The billionaire's eyes widened and he took a step back. "I did leave you! You told me that they weren't looking for me but they were. They found me! They saved me from you!"_

 _More laughter erupted from the crowd and Bruce paused, looking around at them before his eyes fell on the smiling ringleader. Jerome chuckled. "Did they, Bruce? Because it seems to me that... I'm still right here." The psychopath's eyes lifted up and he cackled, looking around at the joyous cultists. "You can run from me all you want, Little Conquistador. That will never change the fact that I am still right here in your mind!" The last words were shouted, suddenly sounding angry. Bruce stumbled backwards._

 _The shrill laughter of the cultists suddenly became too much. Bruce's hands went to his ears to try and block it out, but he could hear it all the same. It came from every direction and it echoed deep within Bruce's mind. Jerome's laughter could be heard above it all, shrill and dark. "You can't leave me, Bruce!" The teen closed his eyes and shook his head, slowly sinking to his knees. "I'll always be there in your head."_

Bruce woke with a gasp, sitting up abruptly. His eyes searched the dark room and his hands grasped his sweat soaked sheets. There was only silence in the room. Realization that it had only been a nightmare slowly came upon Bruce and the boy closed his eyes and raked his fingers through his damp hair. His fingers scratched absently at his bare chest. Bruce sank back into the bed, sprawled out, and kicked the blankets off his legs.

 _It was only a dream, Bruce. You're safe_.

The ginger's voice had seemed so close to him, as if it were right against his ear. It had left a sick feeling deep within his stomach and a suffocating feeling in his chest. Bruce had almost thought the nightmares were over, but now this one had come so suddenly, tearing apart the fragile towers of his mind.

Sighing, Bruce turned on his side and curled up tightly. He glanced over at the clock on his bedside table. The clock read 3 o'clock A.M. He blinked slowly and finally closed his eyes, curling up tighter.

 _It's over_ , he told himself, _It was only a dream. He's in Arkham. He can't hurt you anymore. And hurt was exactly what he did to you_.

Bruce found himself, over time, having to tell himself over and over that it had been psychological torture and abuse that Jerome had put him through, and not some odd act of kindness as he had told himself all those weeks. It was true that Bruce had made himself believe that Jerome was being good to him. No, now that he thought about it, it was not Bruce who had made himself believe it, but Jerome who had made him believe it. The man could be so gentle, when he wanted to be. Along with all those endless hours of beatings and torture, there had also been nights when Jerome would hold him while he wept from a nightmare, or days when the ginger would just lay down beside him and talk to him. Bruce had believed that Jerome did care, in his own strange way. In truth, sometimes Bruce still believed it. Jerome was sick, but as Bruce thought back, he wondered if Jerome thought he had been doing good, too.

A creak in the floorboards broke off his train of thought.

It had come from behind him, where his back was turned. Bruce froze up completely, eyes snapping wide awake. He held his breath. Perhaps the house was just settling. Perhaps it was only that. Bruce was suddenly aware that the window was wide open, but he couldn't feel Selina's body near him, and he didn't smell her perfume. He remained still, heart pounding.

"Oh, Brucie," said a familiar, nasally voice, "You ought to know by now that I can always tell when you're pretending to sleep."

Bruce was vaguely aware that he was hyperventilating, just as he was vaguely aware that there were tears filling up his eyes. He could hear Jerome shift in the corner behind him.

"Did you really think I wouldn't come back for you? Oh, Bruce," Jerome clicked his tongue, "I'm disappointed you think so little of me." Laughing quietly, the sound of footsteps coming closer echoed through the room. Bruce was too frozen in fear to even look behind him. "Don't worry, my Little Conquistador. I'm here to bring you home."


End file.
